After Reading Emerson’s The Snow-Storm

Perfect and sententious–
subject of a thousand
poems, yet you rarely
coat evenly or pure.
Metaphor for death;
accreting on our northern
sensibilities as you settle
like a blessing
on the lawn: a cold malediction.
Frozen rain. Cruel precipitation.
More than half the planet
sighs beneath your bulk;
a medley of dirt and stone
and slush on sides of roads–
thrown up in blinding arcs of spray.
Glitter in the grain.
Knee-deep in fields and woods
thinning deer and killing rodents;
wearing emperor’s clothes for Christmas
yet fall in January and how we hate you.
Slowly giving way in March
to rains and temperate weather,
yet lay in cut-off stands in fields,
reluctant to retreat,
after having had your way with us
six months of the year.

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