How much more?

I just reread my recent poetry output, preparatory to printing the newer stuff out and adding it to my book. (April is Poetry Month, and, believe it or not, I do get calls to read stuff at different venues.) In any case, I was rather disconcerted to find that I seem to have taken a darker turn recently. Almost everything I've turned out this winter (barring my Ode to Velveeta) has been pretty darned depressing.

Blame it on the weather, blame it on my health issues, blame it on my mother and her complaints...but it has been a bad winter all round. It's almost the first of March and I am still seeing piles of dirty snow on my patio and in the street. The alley bears the remnants of rock salt and ice melt; there are fallen branches (poor magnolias!) and ragged scars on so many trees that I wonder how misshapen they will be come spring. Even the river looks dirty and tired.

But, clearing up the fallen branches on the patio, I saw, peeking out from underneath the snow, a couple little inch-high spears of daffodil leaves. The lilac has what looks like a few leaf buds (I dare not hope for flowers...) Indoors, my scraggly-looking orchid from last spring somehow produced a flower stalk and still shows 5 or 6 blossoms. So this morning I walked down to Market Square, and while there are only a handful of hardy vendors, there was one who had pussy willows. I gathered some up and put them in a vase right inside the front door. There may be a threat of more snow this week--but those pussy willows are a promise.

(...and, in case you're interested, here's the last depressing poem of the season...)

Dark Angels

The reluctant river drags its heels
along its muddy bed,
turbid and brown-green
as the patchy ragged grass
and bony, lost-soul trees along its banks.
Above, dark angels spread their wings,
dirty –feathered, oppressive,
holding no promise of salvation,
inhabiting neither earth nor heaven:
perpetually suspended, as are we,
between winter’s dingy, sin-gray landscape
and lost paradisaic light.

Midwinter

The river is frozen and covered with snow. So am I. I sweep snow from my walk and chip ice from my windshield so that I may drive to places I’d rather not be. The sky is gray and threatening and so are all the unwilling drivers on the road. Chance of snow: 30% today. Chance of imminent blue funk: 100%.

What is it about this month? Is it delayed post-holiday letdown? The monster snowstorm? Or the knowledge that spring is still at least a month away? Perhaps it’s the dull depression of the monochrome landscape: sky, trees and river chalked in gray-brown boredom, with gray-brown snow mountains everywhere else. What the world needs is a spot of contrast, a little more red: a warm color.

When I worked, I left home in dawn’s first threads of light and returned in unraveling dusk. I lived a twilight life in winter—daylight being the exclusive benediction of the unemployed. I, on the other hand, paid taxes in sunlight, doling out the brightness of daytime, week after week, for the privilege of having a job. Some days the tariff was too high.

My world was circumscribed by the path from house to car to garage to office—and the circle was too small, too gray, and too coldly incestuous. In winter, I now move through my house, dodging the drafts, taking small comforts in my kitchen, baking what I should not eat and eating what I should not bake. I feel myself growing in apathy, age, and girth. I wallow in cups of tea and hot chocolate, and despair of summer’s return.

This is not an optimist’s month. It speaks in Eeyore tones, telling me that I am old and tired and incapable of pulling together all the loose ends of my life—at home and at work—and weaving them into some kind of meaningful whole. I contemplate my half-empty cup of tea, measure myself, and come up short.

The best thing to say about winter is… it’s almost over. Days are getting longer, albeit not noticeably. February brought Valentine’s Day, Presidents’ Day, a clutch of birthdays of friends and neighbors…February’s a short month, and March is on its heels.

Maybe, here comes the sun. You’re overdue, mister.

Snow Ugly!

Not a Poem

Not everything is a poem;

nor are all sights a picture.

When the blizzard came,

cameras blossomed everywhere,

recording intrepid journeys

to the mailbox, the sidewalk, the car..

immortalizing patio tables

in their fluffy white toques,

and trees and shrubs

bent and bowed under snowy burdens.

Not everything is a picture.

One arduous week later.

grimy mountains of ice

have erupted on streets,

on parking lots, on sidewalks.

Icicles dangle like Damocles’ sword,

ready to smite the unwary pedestrian.

And underfoot, snow angels and sleds

have given way to devilish commutes

and slippery side streets.

Not everything is a poem.

SnOMG

On January 16, I mentioned in this spot that January, the nadir of winter, was half gone. I was wrong. There is no low lower than February of 2010 in the Washington, DC area. We have been blasted, buffeted, blind-sided and battered by a series of storms that have made all past 'snow events' look like a chilly day in Miami. There is much to be grateful for...JC is at home, rather than somewhere on the road, as he has been in the past; we have plenty of supplies (I even had a 50-lb bag of ice-melt, which is, I might say, woefully inadequate); we are within trekking distance of a grocery store, a pharmacy, a bank, and even restaurants. We are hardly deprived.

But (and there is always a 'but') this winter has been wearying in the extreme. I've heard the jokes about what wimps we are here in DC (What is a foot of snow in Minneapolis? June) and watched TV weather people catalogue the many things that you should NEVER do in a snowstorm (like drive..) If this were a yearly process, I guess we'd be used to it and either deal with it or move south. But it's not.

This year has been historically the snowiest on record. We are not used to making our way each day across glaciers of refrozen pavement, or climbing mini-mountains of ice and snow simply to cross the street. I look out my window and see icicles that could impale a wildebeest if they fell, and all of a sudden, people have started talking about the imminent reality of roof collapse. I see gutters sagging or broken from local buildings, and yellow 'caution' tape strung across sidewalks. There are fallen wires, fallen tree limbs, ancient boxwoods bowed under towers of snow. The least errand becomes an exercise in logistics. Is a car required? Is there a place to park? Should I walk? Are the sidewalks cleared? How much can I safely carry and still keep an eye on my footing? How far, how cold, how slippery, how necessary? How long ago it seems when I could walk out the door, and with no further thought, jump into my car and run a morning's worth of errands on autopilot...

I am no longer amused. I am tired. I want my life back--the life before snow. Where I was ready to start an exercise program. Where I had control of my own little world. Where the sun shone, and the sky was blue, and the roads were clear. Spring is 36 days away. Have faith.