The Thermodynamics of Frost
Oct 21 2013


The first snow
is more about time, than matter.

The thermodynamics of frost,
perfect flakes
on the tips of blades of grass
dematerialize, as I watch,
according to the speed and mass of falling.
The volume of snow
the latent heat of earth.
A feeble sun
somewhere in the overcast
diffusing its equal light,
the milky distance
equivocal.

In a month, the balance will tip
ever so slightly,
the world turn white.
Ancient glaciers began like this,
layer by layer
with the inexhaustible patience
inherent in nature
building-up.

Time frozen
in the mountainous weight of ice.
That continue to hold
their paleolithic secrets,
extinct species
and freeze-dried man.
In clawed hands, like tanned leather
a hunter clutching his bow,
precious possessions intact
down to his last meal.

But now
my front lawn is straw-like grass,
with a delicate frosting
of evanescent snow.
The beauty
of things that barely last.
Diamond-cut crystals
a hand’s unable to hold,
instantly vanish
the moment I watch.

Today, I looked out the window at the first snow of the season. I was reminded of my very first poem, which was written 12 years ago to the month, and was called exactly that: First Snow. So the rumination on time seems even more pertinent.

It was the realization that it would be at least a month before the snow "stuck" that led to the poem. This is the time of year when we can enjoy the aesthetics of freshly falling snow without worrying about all the rest: the driving and shovelling and downed hydro wires.

I watch the physics of energy exchange and volume and temperature and heat capacity play out like a laboratory before my eyes, and think not only about frames of reference in time, but about tipping points: when things are in critical balance, and can go either way. I seem to write a lot of poems about physics, and this is one more. I really enjoy the challenge of keeping the science reasonably accurate without letting the distinctly unpoetic technicalities get in the way.

The reference is to the body of an ancient hunter that was spit out by a melting glacier in the Alps (as well as mammoth tusks in Siberia exposed by global warming, which are being hastily excavated before the elements can take them.) He was so well preserved that they were even able to examine the contents of his stomach, forensically recreating his last meal. I think the image of a hand -- first clutching the bow, then trying to hold melting snow -- connects him to the writer/reader, and reinforces the tension between transience and timelessness. I also like the inherent tension in "diamond-cut crystals ... that instantly vanish", which does much the same.

...Although now I look up from the page and notice, in the dwindling light, that the snow is accumulating! It won’t last, of course. But it looks as if that infinitesimal tipping point has gone and tipped the other way. …Lucky I took my first look when I did.