Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Broken Season

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At four years old
Nate called this
the broken season.

Slightly rotted, stale snow
stays and stays
and our house is in the mountain's shadow from noon on.

A fringe of icicles hangs from the gutters,
dripping all day,
growing longer all night.

During an ice storm once
I curled around a sleeping baby
as a white pine
came slowly
heavily
through the roof,
stopping as a chandelier just above the kitchen counter.

Tonight
I lay in bed
my thoughts running down
dreary cul-de-sacs of
longing and self-defeat,

pulling at the skirts of a universe
that says
What are you crying about?
I'll give you something to cry about.


Kathy Parham writes in Boone, North Carolina, where she lives with her husband and two children. She is the founder and executive director of The Children’s Playhouse, a small children’s museum.


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