‘Thunder snow’ shocks softly
with lavender lightning.
Silence.…….. …Rumbling,
muffling.…. ……Flashes
from high in the low clouds
curiously hard to distinguish from
the arcing of transformers
where wind strains wires
from poles; but those
light the blizzard
from within
with a pale version of new-maple-leaf-&-flower
(lavender’s chartreuse)—
………………………………………..then all
falls back to grey
………………. and greyer.
Indoors, lights flicker
as neighborhood after neighborhood
goes dark all over town,
one side of the street, then ours.
We light dusty candles and
remember how to trim
an oil-lamp wick, pile food from fridge
into coolers on the deck.
Overnight two feet of snow
thrown over them like a lumpy comforter:
moguls of the flatlands;
and we are happy to be homebound.
Finally, as we shovel together,
a chance to talk with the Mormon neighbors
who declined the move-in pie.
That and snowshoeing and the glee
of sledders make a short day
with an excuse to visit the widows
and the divorced.
That evening, a single elder carries
his sleeping bag across the street,
miner’s light on his forehead
beaming both ways
—no cars, still white—
and he, a one-time chemist, explains to us
old hippies why he hoped
we might have a hand grinder
for his coffee beans.
This poem was previously published by Arachne Press in the anthology Shortest Day, Longest Night and preformed in London as part of the Solstice Shorts festival. Details.
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