Poetry Series: The Cold Stretch; At the Cusp of Equinox

By Sass Borodkin 


The Cold Stretch

Winter: the slow blink

of light returning.

The lid opening

so sluggishly

we hunker into the darkness,

praying toward the thaw,

aching to tell the sun

how grateful we are

for the whiff of

returned peach blossoms

and the echo of kids giggle-jumping

through the sprinkler.

The hunker feels like a drag

despite its red-carpet rollout

for soil hydrated enough

for pumpkin pie harvests

and daffodils.

I miss the light,

but the blink gets me ready

to meet it again.

So, I’ll try to be welcoming.

I’ll try.


At the Cusp of Equinox


I love the colors I can see at the door edge of winter 


Spring peeking through golden corn stalks from last harvest 

brazenly poking through thinning snow

row by defiant row


The blue expanse behind framing storm clouds 

bringing that golden to glow 

against the soft white waning blanket of winter’s end


I can almost smell the ripe yellow of corn to come.