Making Music

When hard frost burns your nose, and every pain, 
Sharp as white pepper, almost has a sound,
You hesitate to ever yield again 
To coldness and indifference all around.
The singing insect’s home is cramped and small.
Its bed is hard beneath the crusted rime.
It sleeps, for there is nothing left at all
For it to sing about in this harsh time.
All contrast comes to add more to the sum
Of what we know exists beyond all sense.
We strain to hear that single, steady hum—
A knowingness explicit, faint and tense,
Akin to strings that tighten when you tune
Your fiddle to a song composed  by bugs,
Leg against wing, who’ll play again in June
In concert, to an audience of slugs.

Sally Cook is both painter and poet. Whether writ­ing or paint­ing, she keeps a sharp eye out for the psy­cho­log­i­cal por­trait. Her essays and poetry have been pub­lished in jour­nals such as The Chimera, Chron­i­cles, Con­tem­po­rary Son­net, Iambs & Trochees, Pivot, and The For­mal­ist Por­tal. Look for her in the next issue of Light Quar­terly. Cook’s review “Rhyming The Right”, of William Baer’s anthol­ogy “The Con­ser­v­a­tive Poets”, may be seen both in the cur­rent issue of The Uni­ver­sity Book­man and on its website.