Beneath the Snow

Jan 24 2016

The land is dormant

beneath the snow.

I imagine dry white powder,

immaculate crystals

trapping air

in a lattice fine as lace.

I have dug myself in

or avalanched under;

a snow angel

lying flat, looking up.

The weight

is holding my eyelids shut,

as if a steady finger

had drawn them firmly closed.

Fixed gaze

mercifully covered.

It’s surprisingly warm

beneath that thick white quilt,

and in the low light

and muffled wind

I am adrift.

Heat rises

from the centre of the earth

the living soil.

On the hard surface

skittish mice scurry and burrow and sniff

with the constant worry of prey.

Deeper down, worms rest

and roots are fat from fall.

Subterranean water flows

through cracks in the rock,

where caves drip

and strata shift

imperceptibly.

The democracy of snow

has levelled the world

concealing its imperfection.

I, too, dwell underneath;

suspended

in this liminal place

as near as death can be.

Depending

on the alchemy of cold

to keep.

Beautiful white powder today. I thought about the perfect insulation it makes. (Or at least before it becomes corrupted by freeze and thaw; is packed down or blown off.) I wanted to burrow in and wrap it around me like a cozy quilt.

I also heard a news item about refugee children from the Middle East:  how they had seen snow for the first time, and were utterly thrilled to toboggan like the fully “Canadian” kids they’ll soon become.

But there is also a big storm on the East coast, and people are freezing, crashing, and snow-stayed.

So snow is a two-edged sword. It conveys both beauty and peril, adversity and fun.

I begin the poem just as I said:  burrowing into the snow; lying at rest with the earth at my back and a blanket of snow above me. And from there, the poem proceeds in a state of suspended animation, hovering between life and death. And then there are the other forces that contend:  warm and cold, beauty and threat, earth and air. And the poem ends with the contradiction of hypothermia:  wanting the snow to keep me warm; needing the cold to save me.

I enjoyed my excavation down through the earth (in the stanza that begins with Heat rising). Because I think this is a good example of how the poetic imagination works:  it takes us to unseeable places; it encourages us to be unrushed and observe closely.

But I think my favourite part is The democracy of snow/ has levelled the world/ concealing its imperfection. (Even though I’ve shamelessly plagiarized myself with democracy of snow. But as I’ve said before when this has happened:  I’ve given myself permission to keep returning to a device or image or turn of phrase until I finally get it right!) I like how the “levelling” and the “concealing” are quickly followed by the image of me under the snow:  still, quiet, unseen.