A History of Winter
March 2 2008


What will the snow turn up
this messy spring?
I picture freeze-dried gardens,
and a shrivelled body, hugging itself
— like that ancient wanderer,
spit-up by glaciers
melting in the Austrian alps.

All winter, nothing changed;
darkness, mostly,
and an ice-age of white that seemed impregnable.
It’s surface smoothly curved and swirled
carved-out by winter’s blast
— the invisible wind, cast in snow,
like a sculptor’s lost wax.

Now, I can feel the sun
injecting heat into everything.
And time in a headlong race,
like I’m strapped inside
hurtling downhill without brakes.
It angles in low, but potent
so the great walls of ice are moth-eaten, eroded,
revealing layers of dirt
and pencils of ice
and tiny murky crystals.
Like an archaeological dig,
— a history of winter
laid open.

Further down, still,
there will be unraked leaves
and grass like straw
and reminders of cats and dogs,
who stopped briefly here
some frozen winter morning.

The sun feels hotter than high summer
even the baking lethargy of August
on our unaccustomed bodies,
reflected by snow
and penetrating the heavy clothes
we can’t quite seem to shed.

Not yet, anyway.
When the season’s so exquisitely balanced
it can tip, in an instant,
into winter again.