The ways in which we deal with anger

I brewed tea

in your grandma’s blue crystal pitcher,

setting it on the window sill

all day while I worked

until it was strong, deep


two spoons sugar

stirred into your glass

already sweating in the heat

before it languishes

barely tasted

on the counter

leaving watermarked rings


I take my tea

in hard, fast gulps


relishing slightly

the bitter aftertaste

lingering behind

then I rinse my cup

and put it away

on facades and frostiness

I walk the trails tonight
solitarily skirting the shadows
smeared across the last desperate
remnants of winter clinging

along the edges of the woods.
The traces of trees and setting sun
carve dusky blue, cobalt grey
hollows into smooth snowbanks

crunching heartily under each step.
Every crisp footfall echoes
back a sharp reminder
of the coldness outside

and the long walk back
to the coldness within.