Poetry by Christine Andersen
We could take the car
to deliver gifts to the neighbors—
the wind chill is below zero,
but my father likes a brisk walk,
and so do I.
It’s an icy mile to our destination
past snowy fields put to bed for the winter
and a frozen pond where rainbow trout
swim sluggishly at the bottom.
The silent moon hangs overhead
like a misplaced ornament,
its opal light casting a shadowy labyrinth
of barren branches across the lane
and onto low drifts rippled into a white foam sea.
Gusts of opaque December wind
cut our foreheads in a rain of shards
as we curl ourselves into woolen scarves,
chins tucked tightly to our chests.
I clutch a holiday bag in one hand
and loop my other arm around my father’s.
Together we march through
the maze of tree shadows,
harmonizing a muffled chorus
of Santa Claus is Coming to Town.
Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who hikes the Connecticut woods daily with her five dogs, pen and pad in pocket. Publications include the Comstock, Ocotillo Review, The Awakenings Review, Gyroscope Review, The Bluebird Word, and Glimpse, among many others. She won the 2023 American Writers Review Poetry Contest.
