Iced-Up Wipers - Jan 4 2026

 

Iced-Up Wipers

Jan 4 2026

Snow freezes on the windscreen.

The iced-up wipers

skitter over crystals

like tires on a rumble-strip,

smearing a glaze over the glass

despite the full-blast defroster

blowing hard,

or at least as hard as it gets.

Which is about as effective 

as an octogenarian

trying to blow the candles out,

leaning over his cake

inches away

and puffing mightily —

but they just bend back a little

and refuse to snuff.

The ice scraper scrapes

snow-brush brushes,

but the white stuff just keeps coming down

and I can’t keep up.

Winter builds character, or so they say.

Which you wouldn’t know

what what with all muttering under my breath

and gruffly barked curses.

But still, winter is beautiful.

At least for the sensible people 

who welcome being snow-stayed,

hunkered down at home

in a well-worn easy chair,

gazing out at the storm 

through a big picture window

triple glazed;

a blazing fire at their feet,

hot drink

in easy reach.

Chill jazz softly plays,

accompanied by a sleeping dog’s

staccato snores.

While my soundtrack

is spinning tires

and the heater’s grating roar,

hunched over the wheel

and peering through the small circle of glass

the defroster has managed to clear.

But all I can see is blowing snow 

glinting in the high-beams

like swirling fairy lights.

Meanwhile, my dog

sprawled full length on her seat

also loudly snores;

as usual

contentedly oblivious

whatever season it is. 

I was winging to a friend about driving in the snow (did I mention that my snow brush and ice scraper were in the garage, not — as I thought — in the back seat foot-well?), and later decided it had the makings of a poem.

My apologies to Subaru. One thing my Crosstrek has over most other cars is a lights-out defroster. Really good!

I’m not thrilled about the octogenarian thing. I like the rhyme, but not the implication. Because I’m past 70, so in my 80th decade. Does this make me an octogenarian?!! Or at least an honorary one? Surely I can still blow out 80 little birthday candles!

And finally, does everything I write end up being a dog poem?? I always thought poets were supposed to be pale sensitive creatures who wrote about love and agonized over their existential angst. Not slobbering, flea-bitten, and liberally shedding household pets!