Dying days of light snow,
Giant flakes fluttering down like ashes.
No one ever mourns the end of winter.
The sputterings of spring in early March elicit
Eager hope rather than sad remembrances
Of frozen days of the dark solstice.
Let us acknowledge this morning of silence
To honor the passing of the frigid balm.
We ought to thank it
For its blanketing solace,
For its unexpectant calm,
For the space that opens
Up when it freezes
And all the water expands
To become the ice for our bruises
And the snow to soothe our open wounds.
The end of summer evokes the melancholy
Last days by the sea shore,
The way the waves lap at your toes
Like dogs who don’t want you to go.
Even the end of autumn stings
When all the trees finally go bare,
When the Northern winds
Whistle and prick like steel pins.
It’s not a fait accompli
That winter doesn’t get a proper burial;
First snow, the frozen pond
The festive holiday lights.
There’s plenty to miss.
But it lasts so, so long.
One begins to doubt if the living
Will ever really rise from the dead.
The dark truth of it
Wears one down.
But sadness is always more true than happiness.
Some of us are more alive in sorrow,
In the empty handedness of total loss.
The string of the balloon slipping
From my 3 year old girl’s fingertips,
Me loving my dad most after
He got in the car and drove away.
The way the wind
Ridges the waters of the pond
Like a flock of starlings
Murmurating in rhythmic random whooshes.
But you look to the sky
And there’s nothing there;
No flock, no birds, just the vast grayness.
The reflection is nothing but the wind
Which is the nothing that reveals the thing not there.
Goodbye my old friend.
The world cannot bear to remain so silent and still.
It is time to bloom once again.