Things about snow

Footprints show.
Also blood.

Knows no law,
no diminishing

is a commie country,
knows the value
of a single
but only works
in the collective.

Snow cannot
express itself
without a mass
of friends.

Too, there are
no atheists
in igloos.

Still it falls
and despite
it all, the
choral conductor
the blizzard
of assembled
singers, brightens
the bottomless
on the fly.


Sawmill Creek

15 thoughts on “Things about snow

  1. Pingback: ►Mythology: “Arachne, The Greek Spider Woman”🕷.- | La Audacia de Aquiles

    • Thank you kindly for the shout-out, my mythology loving friend! I recently did the 3 quote challenge so I shall pass this time around. I do love your novel approach to handling awards, though! I’m not opposed to awards and think they’re a great way to introduce folks to new bloggers. The challenge for me is trying to acknowledge them/honour the kindness with the small amount of time I have for blogging/writing. I hope you understand. Cheers! – Susanne


  2. Too, there are no atheists in igloos … have you any idea how much I love this poem (not just the line i picked out for it’s intensely cummingsesque tenor but just all of it. True, I generally love snow but this is really a most exquisite piece of writing – you, my dear, are on hot form for a cold day!


    • I wanted a rhyme for igloo! Thanks for your kind words, Osyth. I actually started to write a post to go with the picture I took on the morning dog walk but got hijacked by an incoming storm. Love the Sunday muse when she presents herself so obviously! You’d love today, m’dear. 17 cm of new fluffy snow to make everything all deep and crisp and even.

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  3. I like this. The “choral director organizes the blizzard” part in particular. And when I first looked at the photo I thought that lit part in the center was some sort of stick person leaping into the creek! 🙂 Brrrrrr….


    • I took the photo for exactly the reason you note – I thought it was some kind of creature of the creek, something right out of Narnia! I started to write a post about it and being scared but then somehow the muse shifted and it became a poem.


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