Bad Poetic Musings: An Ode to SnowBy David Dietle
I live in New England, and if there is one thing we have a lot of, it’s snow. When winter descends in New England, the world becomes a playground of white; schools close, fun is had, and we embrace the opportunity to enjoy hot cocoa, coffee, or Jagermeister, poured down a slalom of nature’s frozen glory.
Here is my poetic breakdown of nature’s snow cone… snow.
Each one is unique; a beautiful symbol of nature’s ability to create something from nothing. Each flake is a crystaline ice-sculpture, carved by the hand of Jack Frost and dropped from the slate skies to carpet the landscape in joy. They are Nature’s tiny ninja stars of purity and art.
What’s better than a single snowflake? Millions of them! Drifting sheets of nature’s white majesty, blanketing the landscape in white clouds of cold cloud snow. Rolling hills of green and brown become rolling hills of white and white, broken only by the trees, snow mobile tracks, animal tracks and the occasional house, barn or shed. Animals and children play, praying for deeper snow for snowball fights and sledding. At least the children do.
Fun, in ball form! You can play snow catch! or have a snowball fight! Other, more poetic people than I would remark on all the beauty of all the hundreds of snowflakes it that make up just a single snowball, but I just can’t seem to work up t he poetic-ness right now. Those fuckers hurt. Yeah, it’s basically solidified water that’s much softer than ice, but getting hit by one feels like you’re being punched by an angry, anthropomorphic freeze pop.
Seriously, there could be ice or rocks in there. Plus, I hate it when it goes down the back of my neck. I put a scarf on for a reason, jerk… But anyway, snowballs can be used to make another gift of winter….
What child, north of Arizona, has not known the joy of a snow man? Children put their snowballs to good use, aside from pelting their neighbor, to roll them big, stack them, then dress them and enjoy. Who doesn’t yearn for enough snow to build their own Frosty? Hand him a broom or a snow shovel, stand back, and ask him “Are you new around here?” Ignore the snickers of the children. They were all probably accidents anyway; their home life is punishment enough. A friend you made with your own hands is a true friend. Despite what my mother said. (bitch.)
Christ, it’s freezing out here. Is anyone else really goddamn cold?
Anyway, sorry. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah. Snow is like poems and shit, or whatever. Right.
Ahh! Piles of white, covering everything! It makes a romantic heart soar! Drifting, meandering flakes of snow, as big as your eye, falling on the roof! The car! My driveway! Snow plows make huge piles, giving kids in even flat states, like Colorado, something to sled on. Plus, Snowball fights! Snowmen! Sledding! Shovelling!
Who put that sign on my snowman? I bet it was that little shit from next door that hit me with the snowball. His dad called me “queer”, you know. That’s a hate word. Hate words can kill. Just because I read poetry to his plastic owl for an hour. I thought I had made an animal friend. It was an honest mistake. It looked real! Disney doesn’t lie! Jane Goodall made friends with animals! I CAN TOO!
P.S. – I think my nipples have frostbite.
Okay, so I am not completely averse to snowball fights; my poets soul soars with the thoughts of glory earned in these small acts of good natured conquest! I am like a young George Washington, lobbing white grenades of justice at the heathen Limey pricks next door! I don’t care if that little fucker is only 12, he still knew pissing on my hood would freeze and everyone at work would laugh at me. I’d white-wash him again, if I got the chance. Who’s queer now, Nelson?! Answer: your son.
But seriously people, violence against kids is not funny. (My parole officer insisted I write that.)
In other news, it feels like my heart rate is slowing dramatically.
With snow comes snow days! Instead of rejoining the rat-race of daily life, I get to stay home! Everything previously listed is spread out before me to enjoy; the flakes, the showers, the icicles, the balls!
I go out to catch some flakes on my tongue. I throw some nuts to a chirping squirrel, some seed to some chirping birds. My car is buried in white; no matter! I have no responsibilities today! Just enjoy life! Enjoy hot cocoa! With marshmallows! Enjoy the children’s laughter as they sled down my driveway!
The god damn plow guy plowed it in again. The third time today alone! I am drinking cocoa with a fucking ice pack on my back because I pulled it the last 2 times I shoveled out the end of my driveway. I swear, he’s friends with that little asshole’s father. He does it on purpose, you know. God, if I was not such a hopeless romantic, I’d frame him for child molestation so he could be raped in prison. Dickhead. My car probably won’t start again, the fucking cold seizes it up every time. That stupid squirrel keeps getting into my trash. The exterminator told me the food I gave him only encouraged him.
Man, fuck snow. Fuck winter. And most especially, fuck that kid next door. Oh, wait… His dad hit him in the leg with the snow blower. Is that blood?! Oh my god! OH MY GOD! His dad cut his leg open!
So as I was saying, snow is glorious, nature’s can of spray primer, used by the sky to cover up the graffiti of fall.
On an unrelated note, my soul is no longer able to soar. I believe it has solidified. It probably looks a ghost trapped in an iceberg right now. It should entertain the doctor that performs my upcoming autopsy.