Snow Spell

Snow Spell

No, I  haven't had a heat stroke, just a little nostalgia for snow that we may not see again.  This poem blew in on the wind that brought snow in mid-February of 2010.

Peals of excited laughter summon

me unceremoniously from an 

argument with Camus, how he stole

my Nobel prize for literature, never mind

that I was only eighteen months

old in 1957, I am winning by the way before

hounded from sleep, I crank open an eye,

hear it groan like a swollen door

yes groan and see Linda scurrying

window to window, shouting as though

there might be someone else around
Who actually cared as deeply as

she about the magic of fallen snow, Caleb 
trots behind, mouth agape, tail standing 
at attention, a black and white doggy
prayer flag praising his mistress,

Linda Carole appears to have fallen under

some spell, looking ten years younger,

acting thirty years her junior all because

some frozen water covers the ground,

I force the remaining eye open, it

creaks yes creaks like a rusty hinge,

and I startle because Linda

lindisima bends to kiss me as if suddenly

today were our anniversary, it is not,

abruptly scurries to the balcony door, 

throwing it open wide with a flourish,

looking so much like Jane Fonda that I

forget stodgy old

Camus and feel vaguely,

fleetingly like Redford,

barefoot as I am, 

An hour later, off to work, I
slip step skate down the middle of the 
street so snow won't spill into my 
low-cut leather-soled loafers; further 

on I spy an elderly bundle of 70's snow gear 
waving in my direction, shouting 
"Haloooooo!"   Now I am

Shackleton, he is Amundsen, or Perry, or

anyway, we shout about weather, 
when I draw close he bellows, mouth agape,

really he does, “Can't hear a damn thing! 
Left my hearing aids inside!”

I trudge on chuckling, nod to the beautiful 
woman and her collie who greet

me, yes they do, their need for studied

indifference buried somewhere 

beneath the snow.

R. Mark Grace Copyright 2010