The first snow has come,
not enough to cover the land, just enough
to outline each fissure and line,
to lay on tree limbs like fairy dust.
It is bright. The sun cuts sharp
but has no heat. Even now, standing still,
you cannot feel its warmth.
Barring wind, the snow will linger.
You have lost a season.
Sick and wounded, fall has passed you by
and now you stand, half healed,
the cold seeping in under your old down vest.
It is a celebration of sorts. Once again
you have dodged the worst within you,
and emerged healed, able to live, to love.
There is a future before you.
What matters if today is cold?
You are here to feel it.
To see this season and the next and the next.
Against that, even the pain has value,
reminding you that you are alive,
that the pain will lessen,
and you will learn once again,
how to be.
About this poem
Today I am feeling grateful.
We had our first snow, a slight, feathery thing, last night.
I really do have an old (20 years or so) Woolrich vest I wear in the winter. I’m not a fan of coats.
From all that, this poem.