The Joys of Winter

The nights are the darkest of the year

the silence interrupted by the crackling of the logs

lit with blue and yellow flames jetting mellow

reflections to the room, the shadows waltzing

reaching across the room, the heat stroking

my face while I am wrapped in a throw

in my favorite wingchair dreaming of poetry.

 It is a19th century moment held in time.

I do not seem to escape my past as a child

captivated by logs alive, the flames forming

new patterns, the red hot cinders glowing

in an endless ballet unrehearsed and fresh.

A delightful entertainment until midnight

when my eyes will close for sleep.

In my dreams is a slideshow of carriage

outings to the market place for the day.

The distance from home took a half hour

of rhythmic horse shoes hitting the cobblestones,

the “cocher” high on his seat

every so often crackling his whip in the air

to keep the horses attentive to their task.

Mediterranean living was spectacular

ignoring many of the new mechanical marvels

that today we cannot live without.

As a child it was fun to learn how to manage

in a culture holding to the romantic past,

where candles were used as a matter of fact

when a light switch was not in the room.

Marcel Toussaint © 2015