Six days of snow and it has left its mark.
Even the windows are marked with weather patterns,
swirls and wisps hard against the dark windows,
a story of storms, painted in snow.
It is this, the unexpected stories,
that sing to you, lullabies and anthems,
hymns and dance music in black and white.
weather, not predicted but sung
like drunken ballads around the fire.
In time, the weather will change.
the snow will melt. Stories do.
And we remember them as history and myth,
and somehow still, in the telling,
About this poem.
I take pictures. The kids know. The woman I love know. I take pictures that make no sense at the time, but as they say, “There’s a poem in that one.” This picture was taken yesterday. It didn’t take long for the poem to emerge.
The image below gives it context.