New England
A Patch of Old Snow
There's a patch of old snow in a corner,
That I should have guessed
Was a blown-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
Finally, after a long winter (and it's not over yet) we had a decent weekend. Temps in the high 40's, bright and sunny, no storms on the horizon. A perfect chance to get out of the house (remember -- I work at home, so winters feel twice as long.)
Well, it's been a couple of days since the "big storm" and digging out is still happening around the Chesterville area. Around 28 inches of new snow fell here, and snow banks are dangerously high all around the roads.
As many of you know who read this blog, from time to time I write about growing up on a dairy farm in the Adirondacks in the 1960s and '70s. As a kid you don't always know the struggles your parents go through when times are tough on a farm, but you know enough.
Morning in New England. Dark slowly fades to murky light. Birds stir and flutter, sending a flurry of snow sifting down. Dim red through the trees in the east. The perfect Maxfield Parrish time of day has come.
The catalogs are arriving in a flurry each day. The trek from the old farmhouse down to the corner mailbox is an adventure, bundled against the cold that bites cheeks and nose. Heavy boots, heavier coat, muffler, gloves and hat cover all against the biting cold and wind.
All heaven and earth
Flowered white obliterate
A Time to Talk
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, "What is it?"
No, not as there is time to talk.
Blade-end up and five feet tall.
It's that time of year again: snow is falling, the Thanksgiving bird is on its way to becoming soup, and cars pass you by, topped by the perfect Christmas tree, trussed up tighter than that turkey you had last week. The hunt has begun.
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