An Ode to Snow

the only “snow” i have seen this year.

the leaves cling, withered, to the tree. they are heavy and tired, despite weighing next to nothing. you see, the snow hasn’t come to help them let go.

leaves are nervous things. they quake and shiver in the wind. these are not god’s bravest creations.

the leaves need the snow - dancing and pointy - to convince them that they have done enough. their tree will live on without them. the arthropods need shelter from the mountain. chickadees and red-breasted nuthatches need clear limbs to return to. the leaves must let go.

this season, leaves haunt their branches.

they sigh and look down upon brown-green grass. those of them that managed to escape their perch crumple and shatter into a patchy leaf litter layer.

some arthropods will live ‘til summer.

as i look out my office window, the musky smell of crushed box elder beetles combines with the inversion (choking the asthmatic and elderly employees). how many box elder beetles will emerge this spring? do they need the snow to be reborn, (and do i)?

one-time skiers grow fat in their sadness as they dream of once-white mountains. the dreaded brown earth mocks their plight from above. i miss the magic of naked tree limbs and my annual slip-and-fall in an icy parking lot. plants need blankets that turn into spring beverages. we all do.

please send snow soon. i am scared.

-

5 old men walk down the hill:

#1 - he wears a blue beanie

and a lightweight hiking jacket

his gray beard bristles in the cold

#2 - an osprey backpack holds

her two-dimensional drawing

tucked in the mesh left-side pocket

#3 - green swiss cap mountain man

his dark gray feathers rustle soft

left leg limping as his bones ache

#4 - clean shaven and solemn

he speaks to the mountaineer

small winter secrets catching wind

#5 - this is every old man

he smiles a weathered white-gray smile

thick mittens cover his wrinkled wave

-

yours truly,

macy