Tag: winter (Page 1 of 2)

Poetry by Ellen Skilton

There are raccoons in the floorboards,
and to-dos sprouting from my ears.

                                                            The dog wedges himself under the bed to
                                                            monitor anxiously the vermin’s every move.

The Philly basketball announcer gets
hyped up about a free-throw parade.

                                                            But her enthusiasm doesn’t shake
                                                            my seeping sadness. Like the melting
                                                            ice outside, it finds every crevice to fill.

Across town, a man dreams of a night
in Alaska, so cold there is no hospitality.

                                                           He tells his son — being an old husband
                                                           is kind of like being a baby. Now, I can’t
                                                           un-see the word hospital in how we care.

I may have lied about my vision to get ugly
glasses in 1972, but today I am forgiven.

                                                          This morning’s sunshine on the winter trees
                                                          makes now seem so distinct from then.
                                                          Like a ski-lift, I float high above old mistakes.

Ellen Skilton‘s creative writing has appeared in Cathexis Northwest Press, Literary Mama, Ekphrastic Review, and Dillydoun Review. In addition to being a poet, she is an educational anthropologist, an applied linguist, and a Fringe Fest performer. She is also an excellent napper, a chocolate snob, and a swimmer.