Blurred Visions

I don’t know why the purity
of this falling snow
wrenches forth a scene
twisted and blurred, as if
by winds gusting off the roof,
and by years spent staring into
an indistinct vision of some
winter park scene walking by and
a spring that never came.
Always I’d see the snow’s potential
for marring, for cast off slush
and salt to decay its natural beauty,
like age and anger can mar a face,
even one ever youthful in the
blurred eyes of a snowbound beholder.
Then, the chill in the gut,
that might-be that never did.
A windy white hand blows across
my mind, pushing me back inside
from this storm of a million million
useless maybes, sheltering me
for another day and night until
a spring of memories yet to be
comes along. Draw the shades,
stare into the fire.
All is indistinct again,
but warm, as tears glisten,
always warm. Always.

A free write by the writer’s window, watching another snowfall, another new page upon which to let an imagination think back upon a never-was. I said yesterday I wanted to write a poem. This wasn’t it. 

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2 thoughts on “Blurred Visions

  1. I am so glad that you found your poetry and brought it forth for us. Even from my place in the sub-tropics I remember how the snow swirls memories in my aging mind. The lines that held my attention were “Then, the chill in the gut,
    that might-be that never did.” How much energy we use fearing and fighting the imagined lions and tigers of our modern world. Thanks Joseph, for once again writing in such a way that I recognize myself in your words.

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