The Hurting Poem by Theresa Dould Cummings

The Hurting

On long, cold winter days one can calculate the hours
of discomfort by the length of unspoken words
between two people across a kitchen table.
Only someone from New England can understand
another denizen of our founding father's nest.
Better to leave words unsaid till spring thaw.
She waits at the window, pressing her nose
against the window pane creating a pattern not unlike
that of the snow angel. You become more hungry
when you wake from hibernation. Your taste becomes
more keen and your palate more forgiving. She
dreams of butterflies and standing naked in the field
with her arms raised high above her head, beckoning
the floating dainties to decorate her hair. Words
have no bite then. The fight is all gone and shook out
along with the rest of the crumbs standing sentry
beside the now lukewarm coffee she poured that morning.
The time of hurting is done. Now is the season
of butterflies.
Theresa Dould Cummings © 2/1/09