An Act of Survival

It is a light snow. Just enough
to cover the landscape. It will melt
in a day or two.

It is a reminder of the winter to come,
of colder days, bitter winds and white fields
that will stay a while, making life

a little colder. A little darker. Harsher
and beautiful, a little murderous,
painfully bright on those rare days

when the sun comes out.
There is a melancholy in the air.
And it becomes your morning chore

to haul it away. To shovel a path
past the things that get in your way.
A discipline in winter. Neccessary work.

This one will pass. In a day or two
you will see the ground again,
and patches of remaining green.

But you know what it foretells
(For everything in life is a prophecy)
and know it is time to brace yourself,

to stack the logs, put up storm windows
and pull the shovels out
so they are always at the ready.

Nothing prepared you for the winters
when you moved here. The first one
was severe. Sixteen below some days.

The ground was covered from October to April
and you wondered why you were here.
The mere facts did not provide reason enough.

Stay long enough in cold barreness
and you are left with choices
of what to see and what to feel

and you choose beauty,
(and it is a choice), as an act of survival
that, over time bears fruit. Even in winter.

About this poem.

I have, ever since my darkest times some twenty years ago, become a huge believer in the power of small disciplines to change our lives. It has been my path through the darkness of depression. So a poem about that. And about winter. About changing as we age. Poetry is never about one thing.

The photograph was taken at a farm not far from my house.

Be well,

Tom