Category: Winter 23-24

You may think it was here before you arrived,
that it will endure long after you have gone.
But dig down deep enough, read the stories
of the layers, of the rocks, the bones, and
you will find that once upon a time
this was jungle. Once it was covered
in mountains of ice. What luck, then,
that we can stand in a shimmering dusting
of snow on this cold but temperate land,
gazing at bare white sycamore limbs.
What great good fortune indeed!

Given the cutting cold, you could wish, of course,
to pull the covers over your head, to burrow in
until the thermometer’s thin red line
stretched a few dozen marks higher.
But then you would miss this crystal blue morning,
this bright, stark, shimmering day.
You would miss the ground-diamond sparkle
of the powdery snow rising around your boots
as you hiked to the edge of the lake.
You would miss this silence so complete
that you can hear the breathing of the trees.

If it’s going to be winter, it may as well snow.
It may as well drape the boughs with crystal
and invite the children out to play. It may as well
etch the branches of the woodlands and scatter
powdered diamonds on the lawn. If it must
be cold, it may as well grace us with beauty,
like these shimmering love-flakes falling now
from the high silvery sky, the grand silent song
singing Yes all around us.

For a moment, a tongue of flame
flickered through the snowy woods
briefly coloring the bark of a maple
before it disappeared into the gray
of the deep winter day. Like a smile
flashed by a loved one boarding a plane,
its promise and warmth lingered
long after the sight itself was gone
and would be enough, I knew,
to get me through all the in-between days.

Like a Zen sand painting, destined
to disappear, a work of art glistens
in the light of the sun as it rises
over the eastern hills, its light revealing
the scene so delicately etched on my window.
And it’s not enough that the frost sculpted
crystalline flowers and branches;
it’s made a shadow layer, too, a misty
mountain, rising beyond this meadow,
rainbow snow falling on its slopes.

Behind the frost, a shadowed hillside
draped in dawn’s blue and a matrix
of tree limbs hang from a strange,
foreign sky. Later, it will take on a magic
of its own. But in this glistening moment
it’s the frost that captivates and stuns me
with its unexpected evanescent beauty.

Just when you thought another frozen day would do you in,
January breathes a few degrees of warmth into the world, enough
to heal you, enough to transform ice into water again.

It’s not the last of the arctic days. But it’s enough to let you relax,
to loosen your tight shoulders, to walk without a hat if you want.
Remember this when the next round comes.

Nothing lasts forever. Ice turns to water, then back again.
It makes us strong. We get to practice our resilience,
to practice ease with all that comes.

The sound of the creek, filled by this midwinter thaw,
triggers the fisherman’s dreams. He feels himself
planted firmly in its waters, leaning into them
as they rush past his hip-high boots. He can smell
the boots. His muscles move in his sleep as he imagines
casting his line into the wind, watching it fly
through the wet air that tastes of spring and falling
into the waters, upstream. And in his dream he calls
to the trout and feels the tug on his line as one bites,
and he reels it in, oblivious now to the cold waters,
to their push against his legs. It is only him and the fish
now and this singular joy. And the joy feeds him,
and he wakes glad, even if spring is still ten weeks away.

Winter’s dusk comes early, driving me home.
Six months from now at this hour
I will be playing in the sun. But this
is the season for drawing within.

The silence of the woods as light fades
narrows my thoughts. I attend
only to each step, taking care
not to stumble, not to trip.

I am awash in the blue mystery
wrapping all around me, deeper
than the cold. Undismayed,
I walk on. Home is just ahead,
warm, and filled with light.

Not all days are made for playing outside.
Some days, if you have any sense at all,
are better spent examining the stitching
on the quilt, trying to decide whether the pink
flowers or the blue ones are your favorites.
If worse comes to worse, you could play
Tease the Dog. But for my part, the quilt
is the thing. Hide there. Grab a nap.
Dream of sunshine. That’s the way, I say,
to spend a winter day.

Shelter. It’s what they give; it’s what they do.
Humans, birds, insects, fungi, squirrels.
Who doesn’t matter at all. Only the need.
Show them that and whatever they have
is yours for the taking. Here, tuck yourself in,
they say. Let me keep you from the storm.