To Snow or Not To Snow

You might be asking: "Kelly, did you get lost in stacks upon stacks of photos of Merwin?  Did you drown in fluffy piles of stuffed dog toys?  Did you finally give in and start your new job of Stay at Home Dog Mom, distracted by home schooling the pooch in Peanut Butter 101 and Squirrel Chasing for Beginners?"

There are no such explanations for my disappearance.  We did head south of the border for a few days after New Years, attempted a trip to Martha's Vineyard (always call ahead to make sure the ferries are running...), and enjoyed "skiing" at Sugar Loaf in Maine this past weekend (I "skiied" my way to the Lodge's spa).  So yeah, we've been busy, but that's a lame excuse.

Last year by this time, we had snow drifts flirting with our second floor windows and remarkably, I, lover of the white stuff, was slightly sick of it.  This year, it has been warm and relatively snowless.  We returned from the mountain Sunday evening to a few inches and although I missed the actual snowfall, it reminded me that I really love this poem.

Shoveling Snow

Kirsten Dierking

Mexican snowfall...

If day after day I was caught inside
this muffle and hush

I would notice how birches
move with a lovely hum of spirits,

how falling snow is a privacy
warm as the space for sleeping,

how radiant snow is a dream
like leaving behind the body

and rising into that luminous place
where sometimes you meet

the people you've lost. How
silver branches scrawl their names

in tangled script against the white.
How the curves and cheekbones

of all my loved ones appear
in the polished marble of drifts.