2 Poems about Snow

Late Winter Snow

 

Shoveling snow is rhythmic work,

the scrape of a shovel against pavement

a sharp growl, guttural, cut short in lifting

and the whisper of snow tossed into the wind,

blown back, crystalline flakes that strike my cheeks,

exposed and reddened by the chill air

of a late winter snow falling, unexpected,

building up and forcing me out into the cold,

rhythmic work, done slowly, taking me away

and into myself, self-absolved in shoveling snow.

 

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Spring Snow

Spring snow blows down from the peaks, lightly,

blown by a strong wind, reminding us,

despite groundhogs unafraid and robins’ rust

returning, that winter sets its own hours,

leaving as it arrived, unannounced, in its own time.

To live with Nature, Wild

To live with nature, wild,

bound by its own laws unwritten,

laws above our own, our manmade laws restricting,

you must expect the unexpected visitor

in your home, a mouse or two, unseen

but by his droppings left behind, or the snap

of a wooden trap, baited and sprung,

snapping, his death swift, his body, small

and lifeless, released and thrown, routine here,

into the woods behind the shed, dust to dust

or food for other creatures sharing our space,

the fox out hunting; or the squirrel,

curious, and drawn by warmth and smells

to a small hole barely seen under the eves

or to a dark corner opening hidden but to him,

too small for us to find or even notice,

and crawling in, our larder now is his,

shared in his chewing through the boxes and bags, unopened,

crackers and chips and rice, pasta strewn and scattered,

and caught, now, seen in our hearing him scamper,

a bottle knocked to the floor, unbroken, he is gone,

a phantom fading, his bushy tail all we see disappearing

back through the hole unseen or found and plugged

to bar his return, a futile attempt to stop intrusion,

nature’s intrusion even as we ourselves intrude on them,

force ourselves into a foreign realm, uncivilized,

claiming dominion, establishing order, placing ourselves

here where we don’t belong, out of place, expecting tranquility,

nature’s peace, on our own terms, forgetting

we, too, are bound, as mice and squirrels,

unexpected visitors, bound to nature’s laws, here,

sharing this space, living with nature, wild.

A Morning Lullaby

Above me, lying here in bed contemplating

the sun rising over the lake,

the darkness of night giving way to light

illuminating a world, like me, slowly waking,

fighting the sleep lingering -- above me,

the squirrels, up early and out of their nests,

scamper across the roof, the scratching

of their tiny feet, scurrying, soft

in the moss that grows there, the rhythm

of their dashing erratic, and the long pauses

punctuated by their chatter, short chirps

or the long trill of clicks rising and falling,

a decrescendo falling off, and gone silent, off again

to scamper, scurry, dash across my roof,

reason enough to lay here where I am,

quilted warm under these covers pulled tight,

contemplating squirrels, in no hurry to rise,

to scurry about myself, here, out of place,

to begin this day that begins with them,

a morning lullaby of squirrels awakened early,

their tiny feet soft, scampering across my roof.

Civilization as We Know It

Walmart, civilization as we know it, is an hour away, in Newport,

down country roads, 15 and 23 and 7, southward to the highway

taking us away and beyond, to other places, other dreams,

but slowing now for tiny towns staying alive,

their names unrecognizable to most, Sangerville and Dexter and

Corinna, unrecognizable even to Mainers living further south

in the bigger cities, cosmopolitan centers of industry

and commerce, self-contained cities we northerners but visit,

occasional trips, rare outings for what we can’t get here,

inland, up north, small town life, rural centers where we live,

where what we need is readily available, within a comfortable

distance traveling, these tiny towns dotting a larger map

but slow-downs, really, slowing down to pass through

on our way to someplace else, to Walmart, an hour away,

southward to the highway; but what we can’t buy,

not on sale at Walmart, even, or anywhere else,

even locally, within a comfortable distance traveling,

what we can’t buy are the dreams we hold, of other places,

larger places, beyond what we have here, beyond the small town,

nor can we buy the joys of living here, this simple life,

our dreams and hopes intact, in Abbot and Monson, Shirley

and on to Greenville’s lake, small-town Maine,

an hour away, civilization as we know it

but an hour from Walmart, southward to the highway

taking us away and beyond and bringing us home.