February 2019
Steve Klepetar
sfklepetar@stcloudstate.edu
sfklepetar@stcloudstate.edu
NOTE: As I write this at 11:10 a. m. on New Year’s Day, 2019, the temperature in Saint Cloud, Minnesota, where I lived and taught for more than three decades, is -9 F (Neil Creighton, that’s about – 23 C). Here in the balmy Berkshires of Massachusetts, it’s 39 (but falling) with an iron gray sky and a bit of rain. What little snow we’ve had has long since melted away. So in memory of real winter and to liven up this short month, I offer these three snow poems.
Snow
All day it has tumbled from the sky,
and I have watched as it swirls
in hypnotic patterns on wetland
and hidden grass, on the driveway
and vanishing street, thickening
until details blur, a painting
obscured by layers of impasto
spread with a knife in an artist’s hand,
one whose eyes have watched the wind,
cold and wild, rake snow into monumental drifts.
Across the marsh
small black birds and rabbits in the snow,
nearly invisible, flitting between alder
and spruce as we trudge in the cold,
breath nearly frozen in the air above
our heads, two angels, or survivors
of the last catastrophe, carrying precious
wares, spells or amulets salvaged
from the time of useful things, or maybe
a prayer to be whispered as sun drags night’s
cloak across brittle branches of ancient trees.
Acting Normal
Sometimes you just have to act normal,
even if the weather gets weird, even if
blue jays seem to be conspiring
in the leafless trees. Last year they were
gone by this time, but here they still are,
bombing around the pines, screeching
whenever I come to the door. I just act
normal, as if the clouds hadn’t rolled in,
then parted to let a shaft of sunlight
through, then gathered again in great
black fists in the sky. One foot after
the other, I tell myself, keep moving.
On the treadmill I listen to songs
I first heard fifty years ago, but they
sound tinny and strange, filled with
hidden meaning: “Nothing but the dead
and dying back in my little town.”
To pass the time, I close my eyes,
avoid looking at the clock, but that
doesn’t work – soon I’m counting
seconds, feeling the sweat roll down
into my eyes. Blue jays are everywhere,
lining the tennis court fence, careening
through naked oaks. I read that here
in Berkshire county there are thousands
of bears, that any time you’re in the woods,
you’re not too far from one. And now
it’s snowing, but only on this side of the road,
and the sun has come out again. I walk
back to my house, one foot after the other, feeling
the eyes of bears pressing against the woods all around.
Snow
All day it has tumbled from the sky,
and I have watched as it swirls
in hypnotic patterns on wetland
and hidden grass, on the driveway
and vanishing street, thickening
until details blur, a painting
obscured by layers of impasto
spread with a knife in an artist’s hand,
one whose eyes have watched the wind,
cold and wild, rake snow into monumental drifts.
Across the marsh
small black birds and rabbits in the snow,
nearly invisible, flitting between alder
and spruce as we trudge in the cold,
breath nearly frozen in the air above
our heads, two angels, or survivors
of the last catastrophe, carrying precious
wares, spells or amulets salvaged
from the time of useful things, or maybe
a prayer to be whispered as sun drags night’s
cloak across brittle branches of ancient trees.
Acting Normal
Sometimes you just have to act normal,
even if the weather gets weird, even if
blue jays seem to be conspiring
in the leafless trees. Last year they were
gone by this time, but here they still are,
bombing around the pines, screeching
whenever I come to the door. I just act
normal, as if the clouds hadn’t rolled in,
then parted to let a shaft of sunlight
through, then gathered again in great
black fists in the sky. One foot after
the other, I tell myself, keep moving.
On the treadmill I listen to songs
I first heard fifty years ago, but they
sound tinny and strange, filled with
hidden meaning: “Nothing but the dead
and dying back in my little town.”
To pass the time, I close my eyes,
avoid looking at the clock, but that
doesn’t work – soon I’m counting
seconds, feeling the sweat roll down
into my eyes. Blue jays are everywhere,
lining the tennis court fence, careening
through naked oaks. I read that here
in Berkshire county there are thousands
of bears, that any time you’re in the woods,
you’re not too far from one. And now
it’s snowing, but only on this side of the road,
and the sun has come out again. I walk
back to my house, one foot after the other, feeling
the eyes of bears pressing against the woods all around.
© 2019 Steve Klepetar
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