"Cold Feet"

 

 

Notoriously chill
My blocks of unfriendly ice
Make me wonder if I’m ill
With toes that I cover twice
One layer of cozy socks
Must always adorn my feet
Or those frosty digits shock
Anyone that I may meet
I know that their artic feel
Make me seem detached and cold
But that image isn’t real
Kindness guides me to be bold
Overlook my need for heat
And value me for my deeds
I will jump in with both feet
To help you with your needs
 

  

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“From Behind the Glass”

Forehead pressed against the pain
with Vision blurred by labored breath        
I push against cold resistance—
on the outside once again
Within sight
Yet out of reach
My desperation weeps
I cannot change
            your heartbreak
I cannot challenge Time—
            Unless I shatter through the glass
                        scarring myself
            to protect you


Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Dusk with Daybreak"

Dusk with daybreak—the shadowed haze   

sits cold upon my shoulders   

hiding Future in gray unknowns.   

Tethered to old illusions,   

I hunker low to the Mother   

longing to return to her   

as mist gentles me to slumber,   

numbs my fears, halts my labored   

breath with winter’s monotony.   

Knees pulled tight, a fetal ball   

of too many expectations,   

I flee in desperation   

back to her welcoming graces.   

My unsteady hand gathers   

kindle, possibilities fueled   

by spring’s retreat, fall’s demise.   

A flame feeds upon offerings   

of leaf and twig, stick and log   

until the blaze scorches my cheeks,   

warms my tremulous fingers,   

and banishes the icy gloom.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Leaves”

 

 

 

As the first frost neared, the water overflowed

with reflected color of summer’s demise

High in the wind, a remnant of warm days fell—

alone—floating, turning, then softly at home

Autumn silently ran among the towers,

forcing the windowpanes to lose their fastened grasps

In shimmering glory they cascaded down,

shattering to rest at the tree roots below

There, at last, by the river and on the curb,

the vestiges of yesterday piled together

They shift in the wind and await the first snow,

wait to be buried in a blanket of cold.

 

August 26, 1975

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Preserving a Moment”

            With winter coat thrown over my pajamas, I trekked outside this morning. Camera slung around my neck a murky morning light guided my steps. Hobbling with stiff knee and fingers nearly frozen, I circled both yards. The drip of melting ice tapped my head as I moved under branches. Urgent to document this morning’s coating before it fades away.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

“Our Greenhouse Experiment”

 

Hot tub haven

            Back in November, I came up with the idea of taking our old, defunct hot tub and converting it into a “greenhouse” to weather some of our larger, cold sensitive plants. A little brainstorming possibilities, a run through Home Depot for supplies, and we created a cradle for our aloes and ferns.

            Checking the interior temperatures daily shows a successful experiment. The tub’s warmth, always at least ten degrees above the outside temperature, has allowed us to feel pretty confident that the plants will survive this winter safely.

               Until this yesterday.

            Outside, the cold air dipped to a little below freezing. The thermometer read in the forties. That’s probably the lowest our Aloe Vera will tolerate. The ferns, too, may survive this freezing dip if it doesn’t last too long. By this afternoon, the highs should top out in the low fifties, meaning our “greenhouse” will climb into the sixties. Once our daily highs hit the sixties again, we’ll do a visual check to make certain everything survived this snap.

Hot tub haven!

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

 

"Falling for Fall"

 

            

    The leaves burn against a white sky, shivering as autumn sneaks into central Texas. I watch and wait for that perfect day when the red oak’s foliage pulses with one last burst of color before turning brown, floating down to blanket our yard against winter’s frosts. My lens captures the last blossoms of fall’s false spring. Frozen in each frame Nature’s decline.

                                                                                                         

                                                          

                                                                                                   

Copyright 2021 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“Frostbite”

 

            Cold weather blasts into central Texas so infrequently that waking up to a morning with frost dusting any surface provides a spectacular photography opportunity. When I ventured outside this morning with the dogs, frost coated the top of our hot tub. Its sparkle drew my eyes, and I rushed back inside to grab my camera to capture a few shots before the morning sunlight heats the cover and melts away our evidence of last night’s freeze.

 

           



I know many of you sit frozen into place by mountains of snow, and you’ll probably look at these jewels and think, “No big deal.” However, I like pausing in the daily grind just long enough to celebrate Nature’s subtleties.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Winter's Rain"

It’s raining outside.   

            That cold, winter’s rain that seeps into   

            every fiber of your body.
You long to   

            stand out in the wetness and   

                        melt   

into the gutter.   

            Swirling,   

                        ebbing,   

                                    flowing   

                                                down into the sewer.   

            You carry paper boats, and leaves, and   

            tiny, jeweled pebbles with you   

                        And you’re cold,   

                        You’re numb   

You have no toes, no arms,   

                                                no soul.   

                        When you should laugh,   

you cry bitter, hot tears of—   

                                                oneness.   

You have actually melted into the     

            Universe—you’ve gone from   

Substance to Time.   

            From Time to   

                                    Space.   

You feel nothing; yet everything.   

                                                You are,   

and again,   

                                                You are not.   

And when the rain stops, what then?   

You begin to lose the numbness—   

                                                            the oneness.   

You   

            dry   

up into a brittle essence of fire. You   

                                                            burn   

                                              with the pressure of other bodies—needs.   

And—   

            you   

                        wait   

                                    for the next   

                                                winter’s rain.   

Copyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Leaves"

As the first frost neared, the water overflowed   

with reflected color of summer’s demise   

High in the wind, a remnant of warm days fell—   

alone—floating, turning, then softly at home   

Autumn silently ran among the towers,   

forcing the windowpanes to lose their fastened grasps   

In shimmering glory they cascaded down,   

shattering to rest at the tree roots below   

There, at last, by the river and on the curb,   

the vestiges of yesterday piled together   

They shift in the wind and await the first snow,   

wait to be buried in a blanket of cold.   

Copyright 1975 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Mist"

Stepping outside,     

I paused and raised my face to the mist.   

Her cold hands slapped my cheeks crimson,     

making me gasp in surprise.   

I hunkered down my shoulders,   

drawing the collar of my coat tighter to fight off the unexpected chill.   

The predawn sky hung heavy with haze that whispered into my ear,     

“Go back to bed.”   

The street lay in waiting silence with its lights haloed weak and pale.   

The fog muffled my steps as I crossed the slick sidewalk.   

She entranced me with her ebbing dance as I inhaled her essence.    

She engulfed me with her silken touch as I stepped deeper into her embrace.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“This Is Texas”

Mountain Laurel out front

         The air conditioner hummed, churning out cool air since the outside thermometer climbed. As usual, Texas teased everyone with an early taste of spring. Our weather casters gleefully warned, though, that one more blast of cold air will surge from the north, plunging our temperatures once again.

Rose out back

         During the night, this rush of artic breath exhaled, and Texas shivered. All of the blossoms on the trees screamed, the buds of my roses yowled at the biting wind, the birds retreated to huddle in nests, and the squirrels in our backyard despaired because they threw out the tuffs of cushion padding they’d collected all winter.

         I sit smugly at my monitor, fully confident that this final flirt with freeze will usher in spring. Every March, around my parents’ wedding anniversary, winter invades our home one more time. With the fury of a thwarted two-year-old, winds will howl. Sometimes we’ve had rain and ice with this final tantrum. Sometimes hail the size of golf balls hammer our roofs and dent our cars. Sometimes snow flurries whirl and swirl, leaving the ground dusted in white.

         I respect this final ferocious fit of winter.   

Clover peeking through the new woven fence

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Dusk with Daybreak"

Dusk with daybreak—the shadowed haze   

sits cold upon my shoulders   

hiding Future in gray unknowns.   

Tethered to old illusions,   

I hunker low to the Mother   

longing to return to her   

as mist gentles me to slumber,   

numbs my fears, halts my labored   

breath with winter’s monotony.   

Knees pulled tight, a fetal ball   

of too many expectations,   

I flee in desperation   

back to her welcoming graces.   

My unsteady hand gathers   

kindle, possibilities fueled   

by spring’s retreat, fall’s demise.   

A flame feeds upon offerings   

of leaf and twig, stick and log   

until the blaze scorches my cheeks,   

warms my tremulous fingers,   

and banishes the icy gloom.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Winter’s Rain”

It’s raining outside.   

            That cold, winter’s rain that seeps into   

            every fiber of your body. You long to   

            stand out in the wetness and   

                        melt   

into the gutter.   

            Swirling,   

                        ebbing,   

                                    flowing   

                                                down into the sewer.   

            You carry paper boats, and leaves, and   

            tiny, jeweled pebbles with you   

                        And you’re cold,   

                        You’re numb   

You have no toes, no arms,   

                                                no soul.   

                        When you should laugh,   

you cry bitter, hot tears of—   

                                                oneness.   

You have actually melted into the     

            Universe—you’ve gone from   

Substance to Time.   

            From Time to   

                                    Space.   

You feel nothing; yet everything.   

                                                You are,   

and again,   

                                                You are not.   

And when the rain stops, what then?   

You begin to lose the numbness—   

                                                            the oneness.   

You   

            dry   

up into a brittle essence of fire. You   

                                                            burn   

                                              with the pressure of other bodies—needs.   

And—   

            you   

                        wait   

                                    for the next   

                                                winter’s rain.   

Cuopyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman