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