Last week we had an overnight dusting of snow. I walked Diana to the end of our driveway to wait for the bus and we spot various animal prints, one of our favorite little habits on these mostly untouched, early snow mornings. On this particular day, we collected a bunny, a bird, something in the dog family - a wolf, fox or coyote. No deer today. A tire track from the adult male human who leaves at an ungodly hour each morning. (Hi Jimmy.)
I’m one of those weirdos who loves the winter, the cold and snow. This week especially, I feel such deep gratitude. To the scorching parts on fire: how I wish I could airlift some snow, ice cold water, an avalanche of ice cubes, the smack and stillness of a cold winter morning on your face. Like refrigerated aloe on a sunburn.
Man, words and thoughts are so useless. But here we are.
There’s not much I can offer that you haven’t already seen/felt/heard. But I turn to the writing of others, as I usually do when I can’t wrap my mind around something, can only feel into it. I found this poem from November and offer it up:
HOLDING VIGIL by Alison Luterman1
My cousin asks if I can describe this moment,
the heaviness of it, like sitting outside
the operating room while someone you love
is in surgery and you’re on those awful plastic chairs
eating flaming Doritos from the vending machine
which is the only thing that seems appealing to you, dinner-wise,
waiting for the moment when the doctor will come out
in her scrubs and face-mask, which she’ll pull down
to tell you whether your beloved will live or not. That’s how it feels
as the hours tick by, and everyone I care about
is texting me with the same cold lump of dread in their throat
asking if I’m okay, telling me how scared they are.
I suppose in that way this is a moment of unity,
the fact that we are all waiting in the same
hospital corridor, for the same patient, who is on life support,
and we’re asking each other, Will he wake up?
Will she be herself? And we’re taking turns holding vigil,
as families do, and bringing each other coffee
from the cafeteria, and some of us think she’s gonna make it
while others are already planning what they’ll wear to the funeral,
which is also what happens at times like these,
and I tell my cousin I don’t think I can describe this moment,
heavier than plutonium, but on the other hand,
in the grand scheme of things, I mean the whole sweep
of human history, a soap bubble, because empires
are always rising and falling, and whole civilizations
die, they do, they get wiped out, this happens
all the time, it’s just a shock when it happens to your civilization,
your country, when it’s someone from your family on the respirator,
and I don’t ask her how she’s sleeping, or what she thinks about
when she wakes at three in the morning,
cause she’s got two daughters, and that’s the thing,
it’s not just us older people, forget about us, we had our day
and we burned right through it, gasoline, fast food,
cheap clothing, but right now I’m talking about the babies,
and not just the human ones, but also the turtles and owls
and white tigers, the Redwoods, the ozone layer,
the icebergs for the love of God—every single
blessed being on the face of this earth
is holding its breath in this moment,
and if you’re asking, can I describe that, Cousin,
then I’ve gotta say no, no one could describe it
we all just have to live through it,
holding each other’s hands.
Sending stone-cold love to wherever you are,
Kate
This poem was published in the Poets Respond section of Rattle.
Your line “I’m one of those weirdos who loves the winter, cold and snow” is verbatim what I tell people all the time. Great minds…🙂
Beautiful poem. Those sweet little animal tracks! Wishing you a long cold winter and me somehow a short mild one at the same time.