A wet and warm
December in rural New Jersey
awaited me,
made me a stranger in my
own home.
I didn’t wake to white
when I woke that first Wednesday
morning, but instead
the gray skies and
mild temperatures
that weren’t meant for here.
I looked out the window and
wondered where the white
Christmas I'd expected had
wandered to, where the
welcome I'd waited for
had wound up.
How silly that weather can
throw me so easily
from my feet,
from familiarity.
How silly that weather
can give me such unease,
as if the change in it
was somehow personal.
I wonder,
how could I have left my home
and let the comforting cold
leave with me?
I ask,
how now can I choose between this
new North and the South
I’ve only just begun to love?
December in rural New Jersey
awaited me,
made me a stranger in my
own home.
I didn’t wake to white
when I woke that first Wednesday
morning, but instead
the gray skies and
mild temperatures
that weren’t meant for here.
I looked out the window and
wondered where the white
Christmas I'd expected had
wandered to, where the
welcome I'd waited for
had wound up.
How silly that weather can
throw me so easily
from my feet,
from familiarity.
How silly that weather
can give me such unease,
as if the change in it
was somehow personal.
I wonder,
how could I have left my home
and let the comforting cold
leave with me?
I ask,
how now can I choose between this
new North and the South
I’ve only just begun to love?
