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.