I wrote this poem during that other bad winter, when the City of Spokane pushed all the snow into the center lanes of the arterials, and you couldn’t change lanes downtown except at intersections. It made for interesting driving, for sure. The snow piles in parking lots began to dwarf the buildings. The photograph I have from this year doesn’t do it justice, but you can start to imagine icebergs on the parking lot sea. During that bad winter building roofs were collapsing from the weight of four feet of snow. We aren’t there yet this year, but the winter is still young.

That Winter

Icebergs in parking lots—
imagine them tipping over 
top-heavy 
between waves of rudderless cars at the mega-mall. 
That was the beginning of something long: 
one long worry.

As I look through my old pieces of writing, I find that I spend a lot of time complaining about the weather. I love being outside normally, but I am not a winter sports enthusiast, and winter often feels like a time to just get through. It was 4 degrees this morning, and it’s getting colder tonight. Winter is upon us this solstice day. But the sun is out!

Let Me Die in the Winter

It’s not really living.  Let me die in the winter when the mud pulls my boots off my feet and the rain floods the low spots and all my leathery skin mildews.  Let me die like my neighbor’s old horse when my teeth get worn and I have trouble chewing hay; hip bones push out through my fuzzy winter coat.  Put me out of my misery with a well-placed shot before the real cold makes my arthritic knees ache even more.  Let me die after the apple harvest, when I remember the sun and sweet tastes of summer, but before the ice needs breaking on the horse troughs, before the driveway needs shoveling to get the car in the garage.  Every time I go outside my fingers and toes scream, despite spending fifteen minutes adding layers in hopes of warding off the chill. Let me die in the winter when the nights are so long and clear that the moon and stars shiver in frigid air.  Let me die in the winter when snow softens angles and sweetens the earth, crystals of sugar, my mittened hands sculpt new white clay, and everywhere is shades of blue and light.  Wait.  Let’s not hurry this.  The days are getting longer.  I can make it to spring.