A blessing for winter
a poem by Harley Bell
No doubt, there are houses built to be warm.
Blessed by fireplaces, blessed by carpet.
How shall I move my body from beneath
the mountainous blankets of my bed?
I long to break this spell of sleep.
How can I erase a constellation of nebulous mold
when the immortal spores civilise me with a cough?
This could be my initiation.
A dew drop drifts on a pane of glass and joins the river
of water on the windowsill. I should tell my landlord,
I’ve always wanted a room with a view.
I need the magic of honey to clear my throat
but which jar shall sweeten my spoon?
The rain looks sweet and innocent,
as it sings through the thin membrane
of my walls. I become music.