I wrote the following poem in early December of 2013, having had no idea of the brutal polar vortex that lay in store for much of the country in months to come. It’s been brutal, but those of us who have survived it might be just a tad stronger as a result. Besides, it’s almost over. [Grateful sigh.] I can look back at the almost childlike naïveté present in the following verses and smile ever so slightly, thinking: “Thank heavens spring is right around the bend.”
Untainted by three long months of dark and cold,
the first snow sets hearts aflutter
with bright hopes that this season,
things might be different.
Snowflakes fall in heaps and tufts,
covering the earth in layers of white:
the same shade as paper
torn from an artist’s sketchbook,
each snowflake a fingerprint—unique,
not to be repeated throughout space or time,
the world a snow globe shaken,
flashing silver and specks of white,
the only sound the rush of air
blown by strong gusts of wind.
A hopeful thought arises:
perhaps this year, the darkness
will not seep into the bones
quite as profoundly as in years past;
it will be tempered by tiny pleasures:
warm bubble baths and cups of tea,
tiny twinkling strings of light,
the smell of cookies baking,
each blessed comfort
a return to the womb
where darkness, warmth, and quiet reign.
The soul soothed in such a way,
the three long months which lay ahead
seem more than tolerable,
they even seem welcome.