Context perhaps? We’re getting some weather here in Halifax this weekend. Snow and wind and more snow. Typical February. (Also: earlier this week, I was saddened to learn of the passing of a former student / staff member of mine.)
So then: here’s an early version of a storm poem. It’s a substantially re-worked version (or spawn, or re-imagining) of a much earlier poem. Myself, I like to think of it as something entirely different. Enjoy.
february. & the city? it seems abashed, its face gone
near purely white, with the knowledge of what we think we might know,
its drifts. each street’s a just-laundered sheet, flung. the sky, too,
is heavy with this, with all of us, with lazy mornings & those late, languid
moments before the eyes give in, finally, to a sleep.
the word blizzard’s been bandied about. shroud, as well,
mouthed. accumulation a poorly-staged whisper.
know this: each ticker-taping flake that falls – that worries its way to what
the best guesses posit as hard ground – is simply a moment gone crystal, a line
held briefly stock-static in near-zeroed air. in this way the snow is
a fleeting warning; a sudden crisp augury: the season’s vertiginous manner of telling us,
now, to steel ourselves against the siren-sung harmony of some future
promise, that cool elemental; & rather, to starch each & every
concise, fissile beauty, each newly lost now (& now, & now, & – perhaps –
then) against the wrinkling rip of the wind as we puzzle
our way down or through. each gust is a simple request: to both
splay the arms as wide as they stretch & then, vice-like, to hold – hold dear
what we have, what we’ve taken in. what we’ve been.