The Mind of Winter The exquisite risk to still our own house . . . —St. John of the Cross This blankness is not so much a curse as it is spacious and beckoning, the way the curling white bark of the birch tree stands out against all the black trunks of maples around it, just waiting to be written on, made useful, a natural canvas for the hands of winter passing over it. And the days are not uniform or gray but begin with every hue of blue pressing through snow clouds at dawn like a sudden blade of light through stained-glass, illuminating steaks of violet and pink that, yes, will soon disappear, which is why we have to be here at the window to see them, taking the exquisite risk, as St. John of the Cross once put it, to still our own house so the spirit knows where to pass through.
James Crews is the author of four collections of poetry, The Book of What Stays, Telling My Father, Bluebird, and Every Waking Moment. He is also the editor of two anthologies: Healing the Divide: Poems of Kindness and Connection and How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope. jamescrews.net