David Cazden
Winter 2025 | Poetry
A Forgiving Kind Of Cold
Under a cathedral of oaks,
over crumbling curbs,
my wife and I follow
a path I took as a kid―
past mature Bradford pears
where rinds of an entire year
ripened and fell. Soon pears stick
to the grooves of our shoes
as we haul everything out
of the house, back through
fermented fruit-scented air,
sour as the wine bottles
Dad hid in brown bags,
sneaking them into the trash.
When the car's full,
we drive through winter's convergence
of flat light and crows
but in a week I return―
to sit on half-broken steps,
watching crows peck fruit
from the road, spitting seeds
into the neighborhood
and in the slow turning of spring
the air stays unsettled,
varying in temperature
like Dad's hands on mine
the times he embraced me.
Now spring warmth
settles over the yard
and I leave over half-melted snow,
past leaves that pile up
at the end of a driveway
like clothes at the foot of a bed.
And still the pears fall,
clinging to every old surface,
holding on in winter's familiar,
forgiving kind of cold.
David Cazden's poetry has appeared in The New Republic, The McNeese Review, Passages North, The Pedestal, Nimrod, Fugue Journal, Rattle, Still: The Journal, Crab Creek Review and elsewhere. His most recent book is New Stars And Constellations (Bainbridge Island Press, 2024). David was the poetry editor of the magazine, Miller's Pond. He lives in Danville, Kentucky.