MASQUERADE
"Poets are always taking the weather so personally. They're always sticking their emotions in things that have no emotions." J. D. Salinger
It has been said that talking about the weather is a refuge for the unimaginative. I suppose there is some truth in that since the weather is often the “default” mode for conversation when people don’t know each other well, or just can’t think of anything else to say. At the same time, though, it is something which we all share and, like Salinger said, we do get emotional about it - pretty much everyone, not only poets.
You must admit this year has brought an unusually large choice of weather topics, especially recently, with a first-ever blizzard warning in San Diego, CA, unending rain along the entire West Coast, massive amounts of snow across the country, and terms like “bomb cyclone” and “atmospheric river” filling weather broadcasts. What’s not to get emotional about? Weather affects us every day - what we wear, what we do, how we feel. There’s even a syndrome called “seasonal affective disorder” that causes depression in some people in climates without much sunlight at certain times of the year.
Personally, I feel best in cold weather and love the snow. Today, Traverse City, MI, looks like Christmas, with significant snow amounts falling almost every other day. The picture below is of my front yard. I took it yesterday. The forecast here is for another inch of snow tonight, and 3”-6” more on Friday. Today’s poem (which I wrote last week) is a bit about that.
MASQUERADE
For days the weather
apps on my phone
have been all
over the place
in their predictions
of whether or not
it would snow today.
There are three weather
apps on my phone.
They never agree.
I choose the one whose
forecast I favor as my favorite.
This changes constantly.
As of yesterday morning,
App #1 said, “Nope, no snow for you.”
App #2 touted, “Be prepared! 6”-10” are on the way.”
App #3 wimped out, “Possible flurries, with little to no accumulation.”
By 6:00 p.m.,
App #2 was smug and
the snow was falling.
Fluffy snow,
no ice, no sleet
just billowy flakes
furiously falling
and falling and falling.
By 8:00 a.m.,
the shrubs were lumps of sugar,
the street, a stream of vanilla cream,
the woodpile, an albino rhino.
The landscape was in masquerade,
a frozen foreign land,
and the snow still fell.