SnowI don’t know where you are, but here, in Western North Carolina, it’s COLD. Oh, I hear you Canadian friends–a day above freezing is balmy to you. But to me? It’s COLD.
The problem is, we had temperatures in the 70s two weeks ago and I caught a bad case of spring fever. I don’t want to go back to the cold (she whined). But it is January. And winter is very much with us. So here’s a poem celebrating winter. Because if you can’t escape it–you might as well write about it.
Walking home at dusk,
dragging the runner sled slow,
we look back and see the wonder
of snow-broken field criss-crossed
with track of sled and dog and child.
Here is evidence of a winter’s day—
setting sun catching in a far trail
curving down the hillside—
a sudden glint of ice brighter than
diamonds or stars or tears.
Before us a single track leads home,
left much earlier, in another light,
when the sun stood high
and a pure hill of unbroken white
held little more than potential.