Winter's Roar

Winter’s Roar

No matter that the basement is still
wet from the flood,

and the gutter is falling
like the coming snow.

No matter that the groundhog
saw his shadow

or that mine went missing
in endless gray,

I went walking
in the too-cold wind

saw two kestrels
and two coyotes,

and the world’s most
improbable dandelion,

golden face, petaled mane
Aslan come to save us

from winter’s dark magic
or from ourselves,

we, who summoned
the roaring.

The Prompt

I confess it confuses me a little that Kentucky is having such an insistently frigid winter in a world that’s rapidly warming. I remember reading about the explanation in a superficial, skimming-for-punchlines kinda way. The image I came away with is of a large, lumbering, and confused polar vortex—a big, white bear, who can’t figure out why it’s suddenly so warm in his northern home, so he stumbles to the south, following some pretty flock of birds, then hangs out there, hibernating. Maybe this isn’t the technical scientific explanation, but I’m sure it’s close. In any case, we’ve had it all here in Kentucky—snow, ice, more snow, high winds, flooding, thunderstorms, more flooding, more snow, all with a lovely peppering of single-digit and subzero temps. My kids have had 13 snow days and counting, the vast majority of them within this calendar year. None of this makes us Kentuckians special, though. The weather is weird all over the place.

I didn’t set out to write a poem about weather. I was attempting to respond to the lovely prompt

James Crews

shared in his post entitled Essential Gratitude, the gist of which is to write a poem that begins with a challenge you’re facing then lands in gratitude. He suggests using the phrase “no matter that” to get things flowing. I started with that phrase and, okay, I didn’t exactly land in gratitude. But the phrase did land me in noticing and in witnessing and in playful imagining, and for that I’m grateful—even if we are collectively altering the weather and wounding the earth on which our lives depend.

My prompt for you today is seemingly banal. It’s a question you’ve probably been asked or asked of others a thousand times, a topic you’ve likely discussed or heard discussed virtually every day of your life, but one that is nevertheless becoming more rather than less interesting. Here it is: how’s the weather?

Really, truly, how is your weather? How is today? And how do you know? Did you step outside and feel the air on your face? Do you hear rain on the roof? How did you experience the weather yesterday? And how has your weather been when you zoom out and view the winter or the past year as a whole?

How has the recent weather mirrored, mocked, or altered your mood? How has it altered your life? Do you find yourself preparing for future alterations or catastrophes?

Is there a message for you personally carried on the wind or printed in the tiny crystals of snow that float down from the sky? Is there a message for our culture or society stamped on the bare ground where a snowpack should lie? Do you have words you would like to offer back to the weather or the wind? Or maybe to that poor, confused lumbering bear sleeping far from his home?

Is there some aspect of weather you want to thank or praise? Some rarely considered blessing—the jet stream, ocean currents, winter sun on your back? Is there some aspect of weather you want to mourn? Complaining is also fine. Bring on your weather-themed lamentations!

What a strange fate that the lowest hanging fruit of small talk should become such a big and essential conversation. I look forward to your poems, friends, with all their unexpected twists, turns, quirks, complaints, and celebrations. I’m grateful for these tiny windows of words that you open between us.

Also, mark your calendars!

LeeAnn Pickrell

and I will be hosting a poetry open mic on Saturday, March 15 at 12:00 PDT/3:00 EDT. Stay tuned for more details.