An old-fashioned winter storm is on its way. A foot, three feet – who can say? Unless you run a snow plow, it can be an unscheduled opportunity to do pretty much nothing. Sit by the fire. Watch the cat watch the bird feeder. Listen to some dance music, maybe even dance. Who’s watching? There’s food in the fridge and oil in the tank. Everything else can be put on hold.
Snow all night, snowing now, snow all day –
Who can say the snow will ever end?
It buries field and marsh, cloaks the woods,
blows over river ice in little twists of white.
Deer bide deep in pines, the squirrel in his bole.
Coyote curl up nose to tail, owl blinks and waits.
The snow makes not a sound in falling, no birds.
The road north to town is trackless, empty.
Smoke goes up from a hundred chimneys,
white as fat flakes that meet it in the air.
I bide inside, cook, eat, read, watching snow.
Memory swirls, a snow globe in my mind.