Old Snow

Feb 5 2015

2 weeks

and the burden of snow has settled.

A winter desert,

badly in need 

of fresh white camouflage.

Old snow,

too cold to melt

too warm

to feel like winter.

Like an old general

still fighting the last war.

Like the lost battalion

stalled in no-man’s land.

Parched wind, and cycling sun

have left a hardened crust,

strong enough 

to walk upon

with wide deliberate steps.

Its surface is dull, and brittle

scattered with debris,

as tired and effete

as the ancien régime

ripe for collapse.

And in the distance

I hear insurgent whispers

gaining strength.

So we wait

for the next big blizzard

to overthrow the world,

over everything, equally;

a utopian dream

of the level field. 

Slowly raise 

its modest flag

of white-on-white,

proclaim 

the soft democracy of snow.

As usual, I started off trying to write something short, sharp, sweet: almost a Haiku about old snow, when it hasn't snowed in weeks. And, as usual, my prolixity got the better of me!

I think the animal analogies work well together. But they set a tone of mild amusement, and the poem fails to follow through: the reflections on old age are more bittersweet and rueful.

Although the ultimate message is a positive one: that surface deceives. Yes, a beautiful dusting of snow may conceal the true ugliness underneath. But the appearance of age is also deceptive: as the 4th last stanza implies, not all old people are "old", and an old face also contains all of its younger versions. In both cases, quick judgements are fraught.

Nevertheless, while winter may be rejuvenated easily enough, you can’t reverse old age with a simple make-over.