Digging Out

Jan 28 2013


In an article about snow
I learned the sad truth
of averages.
That most flakes
are homely
just like us --
the huddled masses, trudging
through slushy streets,
in lumpy coats, salt-streaked rubbers.

That average flakes
are not as we imagined
-- lacy, filigreed, precisely etched --
but humble rods, and heavy plates.
That also seem
to have gained weight,
in the dull grey slog
of winter.
And wetly clumped, falling hard
icy pellets, blizzard-charged
stinging naked flesh.

Yes, there are the fashionistas
of the frozen world,
elegant high-strung hot-house girls
who nod at the doorman
to hail a cab.

And yes, we are all unique
if not much different;
the Christmas sweater, scarf she knit
you feel obliged to wear.

You look out
at freshly fallen snow.
But what seems uniform
is not.
Every non-conforming flake
so sure, by grace
of God.
A billion modest narcissists
who grimly co-exist.

Until gravity serves, the sun returns,
blurring features
sagging girth.
Ambition curbed
beneath the slumping mass of snow,
the lumpenproletariat
at work.

         ~

And then

the next winter storm
charges in from the north,
crystalline snow
dry and cold.
And after it's done
I toss shovel after shovel
into a brisk west wind,
feel the visceral high, muscling-up,
the comforting rhythm
digging out.

Watch gossamer snow
under gaudy sun
levitate, like glitter dust,
escape the Monday crush.