Winter’s Hand 1951
by Carol Kilty

The hall phone rings five times
before I reach it.
He isn’t coming.
Can’t keep our date.
Working late??

In the kitchen steam rises
from the kettle. I make tea
in a delicate china cup.
Mother always mourned
over tea, cradling her cup
as if her aborted baby
nestled at the bottom.
Now I search my tea
to see if we too have died.
One must have a mind of winter
when the sun so low
slides into January.

Cold morning. Pacing
my winter garden, kicking
tufts of brown needles, listening
to tall grasses bend.
No songbird in the bare
branches of the Linden.
Just the silent grip of winter’s hand.



 

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