The morning forecast was spot-on:
snow, sleet, freezing rain, then rain.
Weather Channel is our counterpart
to prophets crying in the wilderness.
Somber clouds make no distinction
who to snow, sleet, or dump upon—
the hearse stops at every doorway
in due course, loads up, drives on.
At the mercy of grey winter moods,
moods at the mercy of the weather,
we get Seasonal Affective Disorder.
Every church cancels. Cabin fever.
Yet here comes the village sander,
our Saint Bernard rescue dog. All
shall be well, all manner of thing
be well, with our drive downtown.
So we cleave to one another, share
the same hopes in an austere clime:
gardens cultivated, children raised
to face steadfastly whatever comes.
Winter’s landscape monochrome
arrives more or less as anticipated.
We seeded, weeded best we could,
bore fruit, and in jars preserved it.
Seven-time Pushcart Prize nominee Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire's Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. His work appears in Encircle Publication's "Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall." A full-length collection, "We're All Home Now," is available from Beech River Books.
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