snowmelt

there are three more poems 
to write, and my feet are cold
in a way that reminds me of ten years ago,

wandering through the bitter stone
streets of a medieval city
in a foreign country. i remember

pumping higher and higher on the swings,
called awake by some brisk wind,
amazed at my own life. 

it was that first awareness that comes
around middle school, the sensation
of stepping outside yourself and seeing

what it is you are really in—what is
water. i have been tossed between places
and found my footing in every one,

and still sometimes i feel a surge
of vertigo. i have always been easily
carsick. but i still love the idea

of long road trips. sometimes 
i wonder what this all amounts to,
these handfuls of poetry, these careful

lists. another writer younger than me
is pitching essays to all my dream places,
and i am a little brook grasping

for the last of the winter runoff,
hoping it will be enough until the next
snowmelt. i remember the chills

along the skin of my ribs,
the air on my face, the momentum
and the hush, like that swing

was a living altar and all veils
had been torn away. i still believe
these words are worth saying.

I wrote this poem on November 29th, the third-to-last poem for my fall version of NaPoWriMo (the write-a-poem-a-day challenge that usually takes place in April). I was tired—tired of November, tired of writing poems, tired of feeling behind.

But today it is February, and that actually feels like a praise. January was so long and all those memes about it being January 47th were much too true. When the calendar flipped last Saturday, I wanted to throw a party. However dreary February can be, at least it’s short. And last night we had a good snow, one where the air had just barely dipped below freezing so the flakes were fluffy and wet and good for packing. It wasn’t that cold so it was fun to soak our gloves making snowballs and feel the snow spraying on our faces as we sledded down a perfect hill in the park at 11 p.m. (true story). But because the temperature was so mild, today everything is melty and slushy and we are reminded that we have to be adults. Walking back from church I heard water rushing down the drains at the end of my street, and I thought of this poem.

There’s more winter to come, I know (no thanks to Punxsutawney Phil). There will be more snows. Worse, there will be more days of biting wind and raw skin and unrelentingly overcast clouds. Many more days. But I hear this round of snow melting and I know one day not too far away I’ll hear the last snowmelt of the season.

I’m grateful for the seasons. I’m grateful not just for the reminder that this too shall pass, but also for the way they carry memories with them. The feeling of frozen toes brings me back to visiting Christmas markets in Rothenburg ob der Tauber when I was nine. I was bitterly cold and also a little dazed with the excitement and novelty of living in a foreign country with such festivities. I was coming into that self-consciousness where I could stand outside myself for the first time and look at my life as a separate thing that had a story and a music, a thing to steward, a thing to marvel at. A cool wind brings me back to that. It reminds me that this season of the soul will also pass and become a thing I write gentle reflective poems about.

This poem is about more than all that but I’ll let it speak for itself. Here’s to the snow that always melts just when you think you can’t bear it any longer.

---

In Other Words…

Goodreads

Only one more book finished and reviewed since last time, but oh, what a good one. My first five-star read of the year!

• Peace Like a River by Leif Enger (5 stars)

Letterboxd

Two good but very different watches:

• The Wild Robot (4 stars)

• Fire Through Dry Grass (4.5 stars)

to staying awake—

Aberdeen