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Six-Sided Tears For Fears
by Anne Cunningham

At first there is silence
…and then I sense it,
the frigid fingers
of cryo-brain freeze,
all circuits seizing,
day gone past night.

I stayed up too late,
pulled an "all-nighter"
reaching rock-bottom
in my bag of tricks,
the next day arriving
sans benefit of deep sleep.

I am so slight of hand,
with all that stands between
my hopes, my dreams,
and the morning alarm clock
perhaps only dumb luck
and two hours of sleep.

-- My magic is black. --

And then I feel it ...
…like a lover's embrace,
as if the spirits draw near,
in the glow of the candles
I have left burning
from multiple ends.

And then I hear it…
…before I can see it,
a whispering song
not yet announced
official on the news,
as freeway morning madness.

It's snowing ...
of an accumulative nature,
a bold snow that means
to stick to rocks and other
hard-pressed places,
a thick white velvet.

An insistent kind of snow,
well-meaning, eager enough
to have and take hold,
blanketing the earth,
and hugging the roads
from edges to middle.

Maybe the gods sent it,
perhaps I conjured it up
from the cold depths
of my tired, lonely heart,
or a friend wished it for me --
-- the angels finally fell.

However its possibility,
it arrives crying freedom,
as I snuff out the candles,
careful to get both ends,
and the house darkens
for one still moment ...

... until ...

... the warmth and light
of fresh fallen snow
enters my heart
through parted blinds
and lacy curtains
to decorate my soul.

There is light
at the end of the tunnel,
as I manage to find comfort,
bathed in the blue snow light
leaking from without
spilling across the quilts.

I will sleep tight
in the time I am given,
wrapped in winter's blanket,
marveling, in wonderment,
how something so cold and wet
can be so very warm.
 

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