【by Sadie Zeiner-Morrish】

I. November
In the winter months we were always thankful Even
when our bones ached and our backs creaked, For
full stomachs and quiet houses and the pathway
Down the big road we took to watch the river. I wanted to be another girl,
but I didn’t think about it so much anymore,
when my father and I would chop pecans and sing louder and
say our prayers to the precious slivers of the midday sun. We
stuffed rags at the windows to keep the rain out,
and talked when there wasn’t much else to do,
pretending we were pilgrims with English names.
His hands got so cold he took to standing by the stove, arms outstretched,
watching the winter birds flutter in the bare maple.
And when I walked by the kitchen he would chuckle, flexing his wrists, and
tell me, “Don’t get old, honey, don’t get old.”

II. December
The days were getting shorter but there wasn’t any snow.
The mild winter seemed to give way, but then tipped back at the last moment,

in some cruel, frightening trick. In the mornings I sat by the stove in
two pairs of wool socks and peeled them off by noon.
I worried, but I kept it to myself.
Watching the snow melt. Watching the river turn brown.

III. January (First Day of the New Winter)
Standing at the window in our bare feet,
watching jesień fall behind us and the light of the day come in.
My mother says it like this; spring is now moving inexorably toward us.
I wrap my arms around myself and think, let us make it through,
feeling like my great-grandmother in Wola Raniżowska when the water cracked with ice.