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Hank Helman Jan 20
It was anger,
Nature bitter and ignored,
Until finally a scowl and rage.

A blizzard of infinite pellicles,
Pure white confetti flakes
In a hoard.
The storm attacks me,
A cloud of locust,
In their swarming phase.

I was blind.
Even before the harsh wind,
Slapped me hard across the face,
With an open hand.

There are gentle days,
Summer days,
When the wind is a scent,
Fresh cut grass,
A tired smiling sun droops west,
Soft lips on my barked skin,
Memories of each and every day.

I think of her,
Only when winter grows bold,
Its icy ***** mocks me,
Assaults me
With six foot high drifts
A smooth white finish,
Seals all the land.

The storm buries everything
Hides the summer trails,
Until the deer remember the way
And tip toe towards the river,
Their footprints tentative and light.

Then I think of her.
In winter.
When all seems irretrievably lost.

Then I think of her.
A time of life when those we love begin to disappear. I do not know where they go. Just not here.
Bryan Oct 2017
The green dies.
Never totally, but effectively.
The shadows reach across the land,
increasing their span.
They spill and run off edges like paint that never dries.
Yet you can step in it and never leave a print.
...Or never have one in the first place,
never leave your mark, just crush the foliage:
**** whatever life is left.

The air steams your breath:
A lesson in mortality.
Look! See what makes you tick?
Let me take it, freeze it, condense it,
put it on display, and leave none for you:
the one who made it...
just to make a snowball
(which is really just a fight waiting to happen.)
(Who stockpiles ammo with no intention of using it?)
(Who bites their tongue with nothing to say?)
Too many snowballs grow to be an igloo:
fallacies you can live in for a while.
It's better to just be rid of them.
Let them fly, let them fly...
Relinquish your breath back to its element:
say what must be said, even if it kills you.

It's all the same in the end:
the land will thaw,
the shadows recede,
the snow will melt,
the air will fill with argument.

Why make so much noise
if you can just throw the snowballs
as you make them?

I'll tell you my frozen friend: shelter.

At least then, we can hide for a while.
Mold it to our will.
Sure, we could let it accumulate naturally.
Unformed and unmolded, it's just a burden:
unfocused feelings, drifts of words,
letters, and sounds.
It's better put to use as shelter than mud.
At least igloos are useful for a time,
(Mud still has to be dealt with in the spring,
Why start early?)
and snowballs are at least manageable:
little bites of envy, jealousy, suspicion.

Woe betide the sun who made THIS winter!
Leave US in the cold, why don't you?
Shower US in discomfort!
Leave US to deal with blessing after blessing
in the worst way possible!

It's in our nature to throw the snow,
to waste our respite, to fight with words.
If we don't, in our igloos,
we're washed away every spring
when the thaw takes our shelter,
our words,
our breath,
our loves,

our lives.
Maggie Emmett Feb 2015
Advice from Freuchen , the explorer

When Arctic blizzards blow
in Northern Greenland
and your supplies are low
and dwindling
the best advice is build an igloo
and wait out the storm.

And when you hear the wolves
howling with hunger
and prowling on your igloo roof
it’s best to go outside
and sing - only occasionally
though you will fight to be heard
above the judder of the wind.

Inside the igloo will be problematic
the walls seem to close in
as claustrophobic days proceed
it’s not an illusion
but a fact
each breath freezes moisture in the walls
and breath by breath they thicken
spaces close around your body
breathing yourself in a coffin of ice.

There’s no instrument of death
devised by man to so terrify
as being locked in space and time
each breath reminding you
of that closeness to that final loss
of breath and an icy Arctic death.
© M.L.Emmett
Eric Nov 2014
The snow piles up and I am struck with awe
A white expanse, a blank slate fills my view
Before the wind can strip our faces raw
I think I'll try to build us an igloo

Wind in our eyes, snow on our lips we sweat
The bricks of snow begin to take on form
Exhaustion hasn't claimed our bodies yet
This shell will be our home within the storm

The final blocks complete our icy mold
We've built our secret shelter from the chill
These walls will serve to fight against the cold
Tonight we'll share our warmth together, still

The darkness draws the worst of winter's bite
Our igloo keeps us safe all through the night

— The End —