First Snow
Mar 31 2009


I was born here
in a freak snowstorm
when it should have been spring
in the back seat of a frantic Buick,
fish-tailing up
iced-over hills,
slithering back down again.

Every immigrant speaks of his very first snow,
eyes lighting-up
with wonder.
We take this for granted,
an inconvenience, shovelling.
So I hear his story
and understand
the miracle of white stuff
gently falling
blanketing the ground
melting on out-stretched tongues;
the soft blue light,
the muffled sound.

And how the cold
penetrates thin tropical skin,
how it melted and froze
in flimsy canvas sneakers,
and how words emerged
like magic
in frosty clouds of breath.
Dogs
porpoising through the drifts
snapping at snowflakes
burrowing into it.
And full-grown men
reverting back to kids.

Native sons forget.
And I was far too young to delight
in my very first snow
in my dad’s Roadmaster Buick;
its big white-walls
rattling with chains,
every window
frosted over.


This is part of family lore. In the real story, we made it up the hill and to the hospital on time. And it may not even have been a Buick. The rest is pretty much true. And the message is to live mindfully, to keep viewing the world with wonder. I know, sounds like a Hallmark card. While respectable poets should be cynical and suitably bohemian. …Maybe next time!