First Snow

As children, we’d eagerly look to the skies

for that first real snow to fall, reading,

even then, the signs of snow in the air,

frosty mornings and the bitter chill of moist air

harboring those first flakes. And with our faces

pressed against the window, eager, we’d watch

those flakes form and fall, big flakes

sticking to everything, piling high, snowbound!

By bedtime, we knew what the morning held,

enough snow for boots and mittens and sleds

already pulled and dusted off from their summer slumber,

ready and waiting us and a winter storm, a day off from school,

and the big hill a-bustle with the neighborhood kids

racing down, scarves trailing in our wake,

and trudging back up, our mittens wet and dangling,

hats askew, snow-laden sleds dragged behind us.

But now, though we still remember frosty mornings

and the bitter chill of moist air,

we hope we’ve misread what we know we haven’t,

looking for yet another warm day in autumn.

We aren’t ready yet for the cold that bites at our core

even as we pull our hats down low and our collars up,

wondering why we stay, tired as we are of winter,

not joining the snowbirds’ southbound journey

to warmer climes, Florida and tropical breezes,

an umbrella’d drink and short sleeve shirts on a winter’s day.

Perhaps it’s because we again see that childish

face pressed against the glass, eager anticipation

looking through to a sunless sky, overcast and holding

the promise of snow and a neighborhood hill

a-bustle with our childhood selves racing down

and trudging back, snow laden, a day off to be young.

Predictions

The Farmers’ Almanac, unusually accurate,  

calls for a mild winter,

cold but above normal, snow, below normal,

except here, we know otherwise, we know the signs,

this warm November and the weeds up high,

the hornet’s nest, too, snow level,

and the woolly worms? more black than brown,

sure signs of winter’s cold and snow, nature knows;

but other signs point elsewhere,

as there was little fog in August;

the squirrels’ tails are scraggly and sparse

and few acorns to spare, the mice, too,

lean and quiet in the walls of home;

the fall colors are faded and mute

with ducks and geese hanging about,

in no rush to leave the lake, the fishing still good.

Nevertheless, what we do know for sure

is weather, predictably unpredictable,

as changing and fleeting as nature can be,

as nature is, keeping us guessing, looking

at the signs and making predictions as best we can,

readying ourselves still for the season ahead,

snow and cold, or not, in spite of signs,

readying ourselves for winter.

At Home Now (a prose poem)

At home now, here where I live at the lake, it’s raining, that cold rain of autumn leading into winter’s snow. And a rainy day at home is time spent inside, “sweater weather,” staying warm by a fire, a hot cup of coffee, or cocoa, rich and chocolaty, warming my spirits; and a good book, no Nook or Kindle on a rainy day inside, but paper, paper pages thumbed and turned, dog-eared, or chest-pressed in dozing off. A lullaby of rain falls on the roof, beats time on the windows, and the comfort of a fire-warmed room closes my eyelids and raises gentle snoring, snores bred in dozing off on a rainy day spent inside: the slow life of settling into the winter snow approaching.

On Turning Twenty - Again - Maybe

The whole idea of it makes me feel,

well, like maybe I could start over,

take the “do-over” for the bad moves I’ve made,

those bad rolls of the dice landing

on “lose a turn”, “go back two squares”,

“go to jail, directly to jail, do not pass go,”

severe consequences for the choices I made,

or perhaps just a bottle spun to plain Jane ugly,

the wrong truth or dare revealed.

I do have my regrets, I admit,

options calculated and, taken, suffering the effects,

opportunities missed and swearing to do things

differently if given another chance, I promise,

hindsight’s teaching in the “do-overs” of life.

They tell me, though, I can’t go back;

no “do-overs” for grown-ups,

take what you can get, deal with it,

and I have dealt with it, had no choice,

but if I could take the “do-over,”

I think I would - second chances,

different roads, different choices,

different making all the difference.

But then, knowing what I know now,

would I dare risk it for something unknown,

a different life I can only imagine?

Would I risk it, if I could?

Is the “do-over” always the best choice?