Free verse № 77278
Winter Lands: I
Another winter, another home.
Last winter,
crisped through plowed lots to the bus stop.
Artificial gaps in the snowbank, two feet across,
served as meager public sidewalk.
Uneven openings were trampled and kicked
through the spattered gray bank
next to bus route signs to expedite entry
into a warm, musky haven of public transportation.
Hoped for a few inches of fresh snow weekly
to make soot blackened snow mountains âcleanâ.
Not caring that come spring,
warmer rains would reveal many horrors
to unwitting pedestrian archeologists.
Forgotten, but never lost;
layers of salty sand, styrofoam coffee cups,
bus transfer tickets, pink frozen vomit,
faded mittens, condom wrappers.
In that land,
reassurance glowed every half hour.
Plowtrucksâ yellow lights flickered
into apartment rooms.
Distant scraping sounded
a friendly reminder:
the safety of a city
with parking bans.
3 comments
This winter,
a new land to explore,
suburban chickens
peck over frozen ground.
Salt water freezes on bluegreen estuary banksâ
sloping glaze, as inviting as a waterslide
in spite of eternal, internal struggle of salty ice.
Clots of snow form on stilled river
like frothing yeast in lukewarm water.
Gentle spray over the dam freezes
into frosty stalagmites:
upside-down icicles reaching toward clouds.
The traffic on Main Street
comprises of privately owned
pick up trucks with yellow plows attached
on their way to rescue those who can pay.
Shovelers relocate dense snow,
one 12 x 16 x 8 inch rectangle at a time
the satisfying fulfillment of
metal scraping gravel struggles to be heard
over obliviously aimed snowblower motors
who fan their plumes of snow onto
shovelersâ now diminutive accomplishments.
In this land,
it is so easy.
Let the car hide under that mass,
safety is not the certainty
of an accessible city bus every fifteen minutes.
Safety is hibernation behind storm windows
among flannel and housecats,
feeling assured,
there is nothing to do out there anyway.
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