Sunday poetry is a new series beginning this Spring! Each week, I’ll post a poem that I’ve been thinking about, whether mine or someone else’s. Tune in for an exploration of how poetry can interrupt and enrich our lives when we least expect it to.
March 17: the last winter poem
We are about to catapult into a new week and I’ve spent a lot of my day preparing for it. Grocery shopping, to-do-lists and budgets, planning my time for the week, looking desperately at my calendar to eke out writing time, deciding what I’ll wear and where I’ll go. Sundays are for this type of planning, for the little changes that propel us forward into new weeks, months, years. We can move spontaneously through time or try to wrestle it, but either way change shakes us and challenges us.
These past weeks of March, I’ve been eyeing the prolific piles of snow in my city, not wanting to wish them gone because I am deeply loyal to the oft-maligned New England winter, but wondering how long they’ll last. It is still cold outside, but there is more fresh air blowing, some chilly yet fragrant days. Spring is approaching, the ultimate season of change. In my poetry writing these days, I’m bidding goodbye to winter and internalizing the depth of winter that we have indeed reached and overcome. And now I’m thinking of the ways change resonates in winter. We don’t have to wait for spring to renew, to make parts of our lives our own again. Things are growing and preparing under the snow.
Mountain Poemthere is nothing that shakes us like the wind
and no motion that unearths us
quite like the call of a mother bear
the tremble of pine boughs
the crack of ice
the encroaching of snowbanks
in their silent waves.