Election Year (Paperwhites)

Bowls and bowls of them crowd the counter

in the tiny sun room. It’s shocking how smooth

and white the roots are, rubbery tentacles sprouting 
from the bulbs’ brown vellum to search for 
moisture among the black stones.

Oh, it is so cold, and not yet winter;

the Japanese maples still clutch handfuls

of their miniature leaves, the windows

have not yet been brushed with frost. 

The cats flop themselves down

in front of the kitchen heating vent, and I’m tempted

to join them there on the linoleum. Instead,

I stamp my feet and warm my hands

in the wet steam rising from the kettle.

I worry about Edgar, the gigantic striped spider

who’s been occupying the driveway, 
having strung her web between the wall
and the recycling bin. Life will be a little emptier

without her bloated, terrifying presence.

We will have to make do without her comforting menace,

be content to watch the yard through the chilly glass,

shivering in the cold air that seeps under the cat door,

waiting for spring with its batch of baby spiders,

its blooming paperwhites.