The snow in my backyard mildly thunders below my feet
Making a statement of solidarity with her fallen brethren, the autumn leaf.
I make the choice to hear her untimed song, rather than the complaining chorus of popsicle fingers.
Our ball of rain’s most miraculous makeup, hiding the blemishes of men and gods,
In my backyard, on a snowed-in, slow and lovely Tuesday afternoon,
the snow paints the moment perfect, and freezes it for just a flashing moment.
But perfection is too hot, even with mother nature’s Achilles-strength oven mitts adorned.
The moment melts.
The deer have been here, perhaps an hour or two prior
Based on the gentle, temporary fingerprint of existence they left behind.
They are perfect today, and I like to think them well-fed and basking in the holiday spirit.
The coffee is likely ready by now,
And the driveway is not going to shovel itself.
I’ll walk out my front door
And the snow will be stained with 21st century existence.
There is no known cure
And it is terminal to dreams,
But at least for these few frozen frames
I can pretend that the whole world
Is like the snow in my backyard.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
The snow in my backyard mildly thunders below my feet
Making a statement of solidarity with her fallen brethren, the autumn leaf.
I make the choice to hear her untimed song, rather than the complaining chorus of popsicle fingers.
Our ball of rain’s most miraculous makeup, hiding the blemishes of men and gods,
In my backyard, on a snowed-in, slow and lovely Tuesday afternoon,
the snow paints the moment perfect, and freezes it for just a flashing moment.
But perfection is too hot, even with mother nature’s Achilles-strength oven mitts adorned.
The moment melts.
The deer have been here, perhaps an hour or two prior
Based on the gentle, temporary fingerprint of existence they left behind.
They are perfect today, and I like to think them well-fed and basking in the holiday spirit.
The coffee is likely ready by now,
And the driveway is not going to shovel itself.
I’ll walk out my front door
And the snow will be stained with 21st century existence.
There is no known cure
And it is terminal to dreams,
But at least for these few frozen frames
I can pretend that the whole world
Is like the snow in my backyard.
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