If There Even Is Such a Thing - Dec 14 2025

 

If There Even Is Such a Thing

Dec 14 2025

Just enough snow

to conceal the world’s imperfection

beneath a smooth white shroud. 

The softening.

The purity

presumed of whiteness.

And the unsullied curves

of its wind sculpted surface.

As if the movement of air

had been made visible;

either scoured thin

where the land is exposed,

or collecting downwind

in knee-deep mounds,

the dead zone

where the wind slows

and heavy snow drops out. 

And more snow

banked against the fences

in smoothly sloping ramps.

At least until the sun comes out.

Until the plow passes,

churning soiled snow

into windrows

like high banks of slag.

And until the kids arrive

in their brightly coloured clothes

and whimsical hats,

winter boots

like cute little miniatures. 

Who dash through the schoolyard

like giddy antelope,

throwing snowballs

playing tag

kicking frozen soccer balls.

Who scatter hats and scarves

and orphaned gloves

which they can’t seem to keep track of,

despite the cold

and mothers at home

who will sigh

and roll their eyes

at feckless offspring and their scattered minds.

Because perfection

if there even is such a thing

never lasts long.

It’s as ephemeral

as the the perfect silence

the morning after a winter storm,

after the sky has cleared

and wind has died

in the blueish light of dawn.

When the plow man

is the only one 

who has yet to venture out,

clomping through the snow

in his weathered winter boots

size 13 wide.

When the big machine shudders to life

in a cloud of black exhaust.