Here’s a snowy day poem I’ll include in my newest book, Whispering Woods: The Seasons.
Snowy Interlude by Betty Jackson
Hesitant dawn sunbeams
Sneak filtered rays through low clouds
Finally devoid of tons of snow
Dropped earthward in tiny siftings
One hexangular flake at a time,
Since yesterday’s onslaught.
Nor’easter, blizzard—
Whatever they named it,
Held all in bondage
Predicted, delivered
Burying man’s edifices
And evidence of life
As usually lived,
Three feet deep.
Pristine layers lay on
Previously drab fenceposts,
Rooftops, and verticalities.
Now transformed into mounds
Like castles’ towers and turrets,
Masked to hide true identities.
Vast plains of white
Where once lay verdant pastures
Where one can only imagine
Paths to be
Sparkling landscape sits
Diamond-like, so white
Its shadows look blue,
Pure, untouched, virginal.
Deafening silence as
Snow’s insulation dampens
All sounds but wind’s
Haunting sculpturing
Of drifting power
Seeking barriers to bury.
Trees groan and crackle
Under frigid snow-shield wrapping
Their stressed boughs in steely bonds.
When sunbeams and wind unite,
Branches’ burdens thunder,
Shaking loose their coverings
Or cracking asunder,
Their amputated limbs
Catastrophically severed.
Azure blue skies
Contrast with colors’
Absence, White,
Dazzling white, blinds
Obliterating color-contrasts
Until man interferes
In nature’s panoply of artistry.
Crystals of ice coat
Windows to the world.
Arising mortals assess
The situation, seeking
Creature comforts.
Process oriented, as usual,
Frantic calls to report discomfort—
Power failures, outages ensue.
Man must be in control.
Sure. Busy signals, world on hold.
Impatient world waits,
Worries, wonders
When town workers
Will clear buried roads
And start man’s
Overcoming strategies.
Children don snowpants
And gloves and hats,
Thrilled that school’s
Closed and freedom reigns.
But soon tired of lifting short
Legs to trudge through
Half their height’s depth,
Discouraged that the
Powdery snow won’t pack
Into anticipated snowballs
Or fashionable snowmen,
They drop their snow-filled boots
Just inside the back door,
Pursuing other pursuits.
Mom deals with the
Dripping mess while
Dad struggles to start
The resistant snowblower,
soon discovering it will
Take several passes to
Find the driveway.
Just as he, huffing and
Freezing cold, gets to
The requisite mailbox,
Thinking he’s done,
Hoping he’s done,
The long-awaited
Snowplow, throwing a
Massive glop of sand,
Salt, and snow globs
To once again barricade
His exit to freedom.
The groaning snowplow,
The man’s curse at it,
The scraping shovel,
And huffs and breath clouds
As he lifts and throws snow
Repetitiously,
The spinning chained tires
Seeking traction,
The raspy chainsaw,
Attacking downed limbs,
The howling snowmobiles,
Making fast tracks to nowhere,
The splattering cars passing,
Shooting dirty windshield spray
Combine to shatter
The silence and purity nature created
For the brief moments it
Took to notice its beauty.
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