Another heavy fall in Kingston. Late February —
winter should be easing its grip, gray snowbanks
sinking. But underfoot the hard-packed whiteness
creaks, and my scarf begins to sag, breath-soaked.
I seek diagonals as I walk – the shortest
route from one place to another. My footsteps
groove those slanted places deep. At the churchyard,
though, a drift blocks the way. I stop, consider,
turn back to follow the cleared sidewalk
to the corner, pedestrian on a slow path.
Across the street, the tattoo parlour's neon sign
glows in the shadow of dusk. Cars at the stoplight
sigh gray curls. Kitty-corner, red brick shops sit
beneath a slope of snow. In the world still hunkered
under winter's weight, breaths are puffs of vapour rising,
all time is waiting. Waiting and watching. Listening.
The snow teaches me, the gift of snow too deep
for passing. Someday I might choose the slower way,
might not need the blocked path. If I can't, then,
thank God, the snow will come again.
About this Poem
Unpublished poem, used with the author's permission.
