Cold on the Boulevard -
Wind scrapes the window glass,
Ice rattles down the Street,
But here I sit -
Campaign chair deep as an old friend’s lap,
Estate-sale throne
Soft against my bones.
The fire cracks,
Shadows dance on the wall,
And my glass of Bear Pond Sherry -
amber, bitter-sweet as memory -
warms the inside slow.
I sip,
Listening to the hush between flames,
Thinking of Raskolnikov -
His fevered guilt,
That old axe heavy in the night,
Blood and conscience tangling
In Petersburg snow.
Outside -
Car tires hiss against frozen curb,
Children’s laughter long gone with daylight,
And I,
I bury deeper in the chair,
Warmed not by fleece
But by firelight,
And the slow burn of Cooperstown grapes.
I hear Dostoyevsky whisper:
“All men suffer, but some suffer twice -
Once in crime,
Again in punishment.”
And I wonder—
Is my comfort its own confession?
This easy winter night,
This chair I didn’t earn,
This glass I pour again.
Yet in the hush of turning pages,
She enters -
Sonya, shawl drawn close,
Steps light as breath.
Not from the street,
But out of the very paper,
Out of Raskolnikov’s torment.
And here she is,
Beside my chair,
Her presence gentler
Than the fire’s glow.
She does not drink the sherry,
But her gaze rests on the glass,
As if she knows both thirst and hunger
Deeper than I can name.
Her eyes -
They hold sorrow wide as Russia,
And yet a flame within them
Refuses to be put out.
She does not scold me for my warmth,
For my ease,
But her silence reminds me
That mercy is not comfort -
It is cost.
It is walking beside the guilty,
Even when chains rattle in the dust.
On the page she kneels by Raskolnikov,
Pressing scripture into his shaking hands.
And somehow,
Her whisper brushes my ear too,
Soft as snow against the glass:
“There is no darkness the light cannot enter.”
I close my eyes,
And it is as though she prays not only for him,
But for me -
Here, at Southern and Kenosha,
Wrapped in ordinary quiet,
Yet carrying questions
I dare not name aloud.
The fire lowers into ember,
The sherry grows thin in the glass,
And Sonya’s presence
Fills the empty spaces of the room.
I imagine her walking barefoot
Across my dining room floor,
Pausing to rest a hand
On the worn arm of this chair,
As though to bless it
For holding me so well.
She has carried a man’s crimes on her back,
Carried shame like a cross,
Carried faith through streets that spit at her name -
And yet she stands here,
Radiant not with ease,
But with endurance.
And I feel her courage settle in me,
Like an ember of its own,
Warming deeper than sherry,
Deeper than fire.
Outside, the wind does not care.
Snow still gathers at the curb,
The night stays ordinary.
But because she has sat with me -
Sonya, with her shawl and scripture,
Her steadfastness unbroken -
This room feels changed.
The chair feels holier.
Even the glass in my hand
Feels like a prayer half-finished.
And I think:
Perhaps Dostoyevsky gave her
Not only to Raskolnikov,
But to all who sit in firelight,
Balancing comfort and conscience.
Perhaps she is meant to remind us
That mercy is stronger than punishment,
That love walks beside the guilty,
And that hope, though trembling,
Will not go out.
So I sit,
The last sip lingering,
The fire fading low,
The book open across my knees -
And I know I am not alone.
For Sonya, quiet as snowfall,
Keeps vigil here beside me,
And even in this ordinary winter evening
At Southern and Kenosha,
I feel the fragile, steady pulse
Of redemption.
Cold on the Boulevard -
Wind scrapes the window glass,
Ice rattles down Kenosha Street,
But here I sit -
Campaign chair deep as an old friend’s lap,
Estate-sale throne
Soft against my bones.
The fire cracks,
Shadows dance on the wall,
And my glass of Bear Pond Sherry -
amber, bitter-sweet as memory -
warms the inside slow.
I sip,
Listening to the hush between flames,
Thinking of Raskolnikov -
His fevered guilt,
That old axe heavy in the night,
Blood and conscience tangling
In Petersburg snow.
Outside -
Car tires hiss against frozen curb,
Children’s laughter long gone with daylight,
And I,
I bury deeper in the chair,
Warmed not by furs
But by firelight,
And the slow burn of Cooperstown grapes.
I hear Dostoyevsky whisper:
“All men suffer, but some suffer twice -
Once in crime,
Again in punishment.”
And I wonder -
Is my comfort its own confession?
This easy winter night,
This chair I didn’t earn,
This glass I pour again.
Yet in the hush of turning pages,
She enters -
Sonya, shawl drawn close,
Steps light as breath.
Not from the street,
But out of the very paper,
Out of Raskolnikov’s torment.
And here she is,
Beside my chair,
Her presence gentler
Than the fire’s glow.
She does not drink the sherry,
But her gaze rests on the glass,
As if she knows both thirst and hunger
Deeper than I can name.
Her eyes -
They hold sorrow wide as Russia,
And yet a flame within them
Refuses to be put out.
She does not scold me for my warmth,
For my ease,
But her silence reminds me
That mercy is not comfort -
It is cost.
It is walking beside the guilty,
Even when chains rattle in the dust.
On the page she kneels by Raskolnikov,
Pressing scripture into his shaking hands.
And somehow,
Her whisper brushes my ear too,
Soft as snow against the glass:
“There is no darkness the light cannot enter.”
I close my eyes,
And it is as though she prays not only for him,
But for me -
Here, at Southern and Kenosha,
Wrapped in ordinary quiet,
Yet carrying questions
I dare not name aloud.
The fire lowers into ember,
The sherry grows thin in the glass,
And Sonya’s presence
Fills the empty spaces of the room.
I imagine her walking barefoot
Across my dining room floor,
Pausing to rest a hand
On the worn arm of this chair,
As though to bless it
For holding me so well.
She has carried a man’s crimes on her back,
Carried shame like a cross,
Carried faith through streets that spit at her name -
And yet she stands here,
Radiant not with ease,
But with endurance.
And I feel her courage settle in me,
Like an ember of its own,
Warming deeper than sherry,
Deeper than fire.
Outside, the wind does not care.
Snow still gathers at the curb,
The night stays ordinary.
But because she has sat with me -
Sonya, with her shawl and scripture,
Her steadfastness unbroken -
This room feels changed.
The chair feels holier.
Even the glass in my hand
Feels like a prayer half-finished.
And I think:
Perhaps Dostoyevsky gave her
Not only to Raskolnikov,
But to all who sit in firelight,
Balancing comfort and conscience.
Perhaps she is meant to remind us
That mercy is stronger than punishment,
That love walks beside the guilty,
And that hope, though trembling,
Will not go out.
So I sit,
The last sip lingering,
The fire fading low,
The book open across my knees -
And I know I am not alone.
For Sonya, quiet as snowfall,
Keeps vigil here beside me,
And even in this ordinary winter evening
At Southern and Kenosha,
I feel the fragile, steady pulse
Of redemption.
GBS
2018
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