A short field, a slippery hill,
A sylvan glen gone suburban,
A whiskey trail…
Why not? It’s a snow day.
Or let’s stay by the fire
And rename each snow flake
As it lands and dies.
Buckbean, walrus, crocus, skin—
Insect, badger, windflower, pin—
A honeymoon of sleighs,
A marriage of sleds.
ExtraSimile
Sequence. Experience.
March 8, 2013 at 7:52 pm
Ah, this poem leads me to field, a glen gone suburban which presents a tone of gloom (at least for this country gal), but there is playfulness here, too; somehow it (the playfulness) feels imagined, replacing what once was, perhaps. And then the honeymoon and the marriage follows the fire and the fun of naming snow. Delightful. Oh, and along with the gloom, there’s the whiskey, the hint of drunken loneliness through the suburbs.
March 9, 2013 at 8:12 am
Yes, I suppose this is something of a portrait of the suburbs, but one that also gives a little tug at the ‘poetic’—that sylvan glen. That all one can find to do on a snow day is to get drunk and name snowflakes…and what a concoction of names…well, remember how well Jimmy Stewart played the genial drunk in Harvey. Both sleigh and sled go downhill, do they not?