Winter Poem


Once a move of pregnant desperation,

Now a meditation of nasal salvation.

As a tea smith prepares his favorite brew,

I, too, mix a potion that shall see me through.


Like the grand canyon, carved by the winds of time,

This solution will erode my sinuses of slime.


A staccato drip, with hopes of a steady stream,

So that I may breathe silently, through both nostrils, and dream.


I meet my gaze, through tears, saliva, and saline,

In the mirror ahead, with its Crest-speckled sheen.

And I nod, nod with mildly disgusted appreciation

For the opportunity to experience this sublime irrigation.

Rhinitis, sinusitis, with whichever ailment I am fraught,

At my side you’ll find my hero, my warrior, my Neti pot.


I would bow my head in thanks, if I could,

But my left nostril shall fill, well, perhaps if I stood…

No, no, that still isn’t good.


So, indeed! Two pillows tonight it shall be,

If not for the pot, I swear twould be three!