Yahara Winter

"It lifts existence on a plane of snow
One level higher than the earth below,
One level nearer heaven overhead,
And last year's berries shining scarlet red."
– Frost, "A Winter Eden"









For generations I imagine
the first heavy snow meant a long shovel,
from sidewalk side to side or driveway,
country or town, a night's work anyway.

Here tonight the traffic has slowed,
snow mounds curl each curb as if bowed
and lends a certain perfect fortress
around the block a quiet friendly fence.

As I make my own shovel marks across
the walk I find the house prosperous,
the little lights along the courtyard stoop
shining a white world in the dark anew.

The serviceberry bushes I see up close,
as they stand stark and thin and cold,
one last reddish berry hanging crinkled
by the fiber of a twig as if a star onto itself.

Across the street the Yahara River
flows past in waves of silver medallions,
light sprayed down by old street lamps
as they have for a hundred years past.

Fatigue settles down into the lower back,
my hat wet, ears raw, knuckles cracked;
I stop and stand for a moment  and wonder
if inside those old-time passing trolleys
the stories they told themselves they believed.