The Usual Traffic
Mar 12 2011


They called for heavy snow, gale force winds.
Enough to make the steep hill impassable,
wheels spinning, cars in the ditch.

March storms thrill me.
The adversity
that will melt within days,
like a simulated game
of winter.
The final chance
to be snow-stayed,
enclosed in its thick white walls,
that keep me in
keep the world away.

Tomorrow, the clocks will change.
There will be light
the days will seem longer,
and even summer
not that far off.
And winter, all the more precious
for its rarity.

The weatherman sounded gleeful, announcing this.
I suppose he feels useful
when there’s something to predict,
questions his existence
when it’s warm and clear.
An ice storm
and I imagine he’d be insufferable.

I awaken to barely an inch of snow,
a thin layer of gauze
re-dressing the wounded surface
already cratered and soiled by thaw.
Disappointed the world was not re-made.
A thick white blanket
soothing winter skin,
smoothing over
permanent scars.
Making it new, again.
And that the hill was no trouble at all,
the usual traffic
nothing cancelled, no classes called.

Of course, it’s March.
There will be snow.
The weatherman will find happiness.
And I will have my day,
when the roads are bad
the hill impassable
and a mountain of white
leaves the best laid plans
to wait.