THAT

Snowed In
John Grey
Snow doesn’t surprise—
it can never rise too high,
sink too deep,
drift too far.
I’ve kept abreast of snow through time.
It follows an old line
from Canada to halfway across the Atlantic
with help now and then
from the heavy moisture of the south.
I’d trust my own fingers
to the frozen oceans of Antarctica
as easily as the ice
that candy-canes my windows.
It means no harm,
is more logical
than I can thaw out enough to admit.
But there are days
when snow is all I have to say,
when I call around
and no one thanks me for my
blanket, prisoner, burial, metaphors.
Everyone else reckons life
just isn’t the same in Winter.
Like me, my neighbors
don’t speak sometimes
because they’re either on the edge
or their lips are blue.
They don’t make plans
when the weather’s listening.
Yes, I feel for the local bird-life, squirrel population,
and the kids who trudge off to school in it.
But when they play, I look for something
I might have been.
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