“ars poetica: winter” by Abigail Byrd-Stapleton
Calm, now, ye of little wonder; ye of crackling embers; ye of painstaking vigil oe’er
the chopping block;
there is nothing you can do for the way these things turn out; the ceaseless passing of seasons, the sunless grip of December,
everything made of smoke-quartz and wet impressionism. It is true, you will say goodbye
to the slippery sleepsong of creek beds. It is true, you will bury your face in the folds
of your maps, and when you look up,
you will find you have crossed into a strange, unknowable continent. But look
around you, look to the earth, to the sky, the creek; some things persist, yes,
some things still grow in the ivory jaw of frostbite. Juniper and blue pinecones, a winter spice on your clouding breath;
cherry-bright rosehips and deadly tender crocus; and when you can see this again, I will
tell you about the glacial rivers of the arctic; how things so large can seem so still, can clamor so yawningly, can turn blue ice into white noise and send a tide rushing inland.
I will tell you of the arctic roaring and the frostbite burn, scorching clean through your socks—
Ah, there’s the heat-- the red and the fury and the viscous sweet burn of it-- See? It will come back to you, when you least expect it; the way an elk circles back again; this, too,
will pierce you from behind. ye who searches, stop your venery; some things are destined to find us, some things will follow us home through the blizzard.
When you walk through the pine-barren snowscape of the mountain, you will hear every cloying breath
and know the echo of hoof-falls,
a half-step behind your own.
About Abigail Byrd-Stapleton
She/Her/Hers
Abigail Byrd-Stapleton is an artist and poet from Paintsville, Kentucky. She currently lives in rural Missouri with her spouse and small zoo of pets, but enjoys traveling throughout the sprawling West when given the chance. You can check out her work at https://abigailcbyrd.wixsite.com/writing or follow her on Instagram @Abigail_not_abbi.