Susan Daniels Poetry

Stretched and layered
high over plate tectonics
another instability waits–
this one of air
and almost frictionless,

but sky fall is gentle;
a heavy, frozen silence
each piece unique
as the reaction to it

the radio chants its litany of closings
and reasons not to drive,
almost recommending that wait
with a 6-pack and a game on
in beery hibernation
like a mayor used to say
as we taste ice on our lips
carried into air from the north
though not that far–
I can see Canada’s fireworks
in the summer and have seen
aurorae sometimes in winter,
fresh and forged new, but not with heat–
a green that burns
with the hiss of liquid nitrogen.

We listen for lake-effect thunder
snow-lightning, we called it
always softer than her summer sister
while children shape snowmen
and angels. Dark comes early
this side of solstice, so I call them in.

The Eskimo
have over 100 words
for this whiteness, their world defined
by this color and texture
to this one I know, and it covers
all definition with the same ice
where the wind picks up.

Outside this valley, in another place
I have been snow-swallowed and blind,
where eyes fail and the only way known
is to what is down, under boots
because what is up or across
cannot be seen and only hoped for:
visibility measured no farther
than my fingertips
and even that debatable
reminding me of the exercise
where a circle is drawn, measuring exactly only
the space this body occupies–that is the extent
and locus of any control I have

this small circle of me
is all I know and can own:
that is what snow teaches
and each year I am reminded.

***A little poetic license as far as the AB is concerned–I believe I was in Canada when I saw those.