Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Rolling Snowmen















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I can’t remember the last time I rolled
a snowman. I would have been a young girl,
wearing my hair in two long brown braids,
and blissfully naïve to what was coming,

ignorant of the fact that childhood can
end so abruptly,

and without warning, explanation, or apology.

Had I been wiser, I would have cherished
everything about that day:

I’d be able to tell you the color of the sky,
the rate of snow fall,
the size of the flakes,
the thickness of the pack,

and if it were wet or a little too dry.

Was it particularly cold?  Had my mother 
knitted my cap, or scarf?

Was the snow still falling while I made him,
or had it stopped?

How big was he? 

Certainly, I used a carrot for the nose. 
Rocks for eyes?  Was he smiling?

Did someone help? Younger sisters? The neighbor-kids?
And, what did it all smell like? There were pines 
in the front yard – one very big.
Is that where I learned that each species of pine 
has a different odor? Was I wrapped
in a perfume of pine and snow and happiness?

**

Now I’m going to show my age, and maybe some experience.

I have chosen to apprentice to
that which teaches me
to cherish every moment:

uncertainty
wonderment
gratitude.

The sky is platinum.
The snow is falling fast;
a dizzying cascade of thick, wet flakes
forming fluffy biceps on the boughs
of the evergreens, which,
yes, I can smell from the threshold of
my open front door – made of solid mahogany.

A male cardinal just called out.

I want to be sure to acknowledge him -
this crimson guardian of winter hope.

After all,

this could be my last poem.

Or, yours.


© 2014-2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight" 
Published by Hiraeth Press
www.hiraethpress.com
Photo available thru Fine Art America

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2 comments:

  1. Reminder spoken, I will linger longer to watch the crows selecting their curved sticks. I know how hard it is to build a home. For it is true - we don't know how many springs there will be.

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