To those who live in Ontario, and perhaps the prairies, you may nod in agreement at my attempt to deal with this never-ending winter! I hope you enjoy my attempt at poetry-as-therapy!
- Dedicated to Sarah Clark, a dear friend and sister-at-heart, who recommended writing about snow as therapy to combat its never-ending presence, which threatens to entrench a deep, dark, cold depression!
It’s been snowing since early November and April is now tipping toward May.
The delight that comes each year with the first snow fall, all feathery and dreamy, whitewashing the griminess of city life to pristine, transporting our dreams to scenes of candy cane forests and toy soldiers, is now dim.
Faded is the wistfulness with which we gazed out the window as flakes drifted mesmerizingly down to earth (after trillions have fallen, I have to ask: each flake is different, really?) …
Missing is the appreciation for the elegance of snow drifts that sculpted art forms across our driveway, (which now seems far too long a drive to shovel )…
Gone is the vigour with which we shoveled seemingly daily snowfalls, the satisfaction of exertion now replaced with moans and groans worthy of teenage drama.
Vanished are the cries of surprise as we stepped into snow that engulfed our boots and required a sturdy helping hand (if not a pulley) with which to extricate ourselves from thigh-high mounds of drifted, fallen, accumulated snow.
Yes, where November snows conjure dreams, spark delight, prompt gasps of joy, April snows bring gasps of disbelief, nightmares of chiropractor’s bills, sounds of disgust and a deep, disturbing disdain for Old Man winter.
But, I remind myself, this is Canada, where spring is experienced through songs about Paris, photos of blooming wisteria and quilted landscapes of tulip splendour from some place other than here … and in reality winter transforms itself into an instant into hot, humid and mosquito laden summer just before June.