At Home in Winter's Half-light

At home in winter’s half-light, all day,

a welcome respite for what’s to come, storm

clouds building on the horizon, blue-gray covering

the sky, altostratus clouds, the weather map calls them,

snow clouds promising snow; the weatherman

confirms for me that it will come, lots of it, this first storm,

today but a precursor to tomorrow and a long day of shoveling,

clearing the yard, keeping the driveway open, “just in case” we need

to get out, a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, toilet

paper, “god forbid” (we should run out!) or perhaps,

worse, keeping it open “just in case” we need an ambulance,

in bound, an emergency arising, overworking at shoveling,

overdoing and needing assistance, 9-1-1 on the line assuring us

help is coming, the distant wail of a siren making its way

through falling snow. And at the end of tomorrow, surviving, I’ll be

worn out, muscles sore and aching, back tight and bending forward,

slow to straighten, slow to enjoy a quiet evening’s reward, a glass

of wine and a log on the fire. So today, all day, in the winter half-light,

I’m sitting here by the western window, snow-clouds forming

and a slight breeze gaining strength, dry leaves blown or clinging

tightly to a naked branch hanging bare, anticipation of something

coming this way, something “wicked,” sitting here rocking, a mug

of coffee to warm me, watching this little corner of the world prepare itself

for change, a softening of the cold horizon, the bare trees and ambered

grass gone dormant, a winter sleep under a covering of snow. But today,

I can dream of the peace of winter, the beauty of snow and ice, glistening,

for tomorrow, the snow’s fierce arrival will remind me of winter’s

harsh reality and the winter work ahead, keeping ahead of the falling snow.