Feb 28, 2012

Self Portrait as Blizzard

Written by Jennifer Yeatts

Read by Brent Goodman

If enough of us could land among the rest.
If this reflected gleam — drift, waft, sullen
wind — would wait for the next gust
before leaning headlong into the heap
that used to be the garden,
we’d join with each slush & flake, melt
into pools that tomorrow’d be a perfect glare
ice union for run-&-slide, slip-&-fly.
If figure skates.
If mittens. March would crunch dry
under tracks, sell its subzero Midwestern truth
for a late-model carol. And when the squall
forgets its origin (so long since anything
but frozen kaleidoscopes),
when schools run out of snow
days, we’ll hit you stiff, calamity of whiteout
thicker than a sky full of marshmallows,
storm within a storm, & you’ll sleep
one more night with your boots on,
shiver yourself warm under polarfleece
& patchwork, breathe in quick
through your numb nose, & you’ll love
the dumb, early dark harder than ever.