Dead Weight - May 9 2022

 

Dead Weight

May 9 2022

The detritus of winter

from beneath the melting snow.

It emerges like ancient bones

from receding glaciers,

spit out, bit-by-bit

in the intermittent heat

of a sudden spring.

Today, I see a giant branch

from the massive white pine

stranded on the big back deck.

Like an amputated limb

but looking alive;

its needles still green,

and the bird's nest

where, last summer, the flightless chicks were fledged

empty, but still there.

Which means more light

for the lower branches.

And dead weight

culled from the venerable pine,

so a better chance of surviving

the back-breaking load

of another winter's snow.

I, too, feel lighter this spring.

Because the cold dark season

hones the mind

down to its essentials;

survival

warmth

companionship.

Strips us

of pretense and vanity,

covering ourselves

in homely long johns

bulky parkas

and scratchy wool hats,

with silly tassels

and colours that clash.

And the world

seems simpler as well

under a uniform layer of snow,

at rest

and easy on the eyes.

Thinking back

to the fastness of winter

long after it has melted.

How snow

smooths out its contours

evens up its lows.

Arrests

the almost decadent excess

of a long hot summer's

runaway growth.

And seems to absolve us of sin;

concealing

our sloth, and neglect

and the mess we've made

beneath a blanket of virgin white.