Poet Commentaries

The First Snow

It is like a switch being turned on.  I will say “it will snow when it snows” or “we should not expect anything until Christmas”, pretending to be all cool, but it never works that way.

What it is exactly that I love is beyond me.  That is the point of poetry.  In fact I wish it would change because it is kinda nuts.  Why can I not get as excited for summer?  Fall and winter being my favourite season just seems contrary.  I think that the switch turns off plans and projects and forces me to unwind.  Any unfinished work lies under a cover, put aside for a season.  In winter I do not have to make lists and guage progress.

It is very tough to hang up a “gone fishing sign” for most of us.  It feels contrary.  Winter is my “gone fishing season” even if it is bad.

Below.  A poem and two haiku made just before or after the first snowfall.  The last tanka was made last year when it was a light fluffy snowfall.  It came to mind as it perfectly shows how it bunched itself up at the end of the shovel.

Chasing Snowflakes

The eyes uncovered,
all else layered
with a crisp cotton underlay
that wicks sweat
and staves off the itch
of denim and wool.Callous denim and wool
deep in their core
there is a mushy heart
where the warmth of my hearth
melts the winter snows,
where the moisture buildsPerhaps the turtled sweater
draws closer to the beard
to seal off the stiff winds.
Perhaps it become frisky
when it’s coat is dusted and pat
the knap raised in pleasure.

The dog out the right window
the sweater out the left
take in a quiet winter’s lane
lolling in three am stillness;
the only scent and sound
a pristine white noise.

The trick is to keep them cold,
fresh and frolicky
until the moon goes down.
To keep them busy
fetching every snowflake
just beside my path.

the dog and sweater
heavy and damp
at day’s end

capturing stillness
the click of the camera
startles it
awoken by silence
inner clock
still set
crinoline and lace
softly folds
the fabric pleats
as I lift the veil
of my winter walk
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