The sun rises a little higher in the sky every day. With no foliage to shield its glare, it exposes the worst of winter’s detritus: the glint of a beer can on the side of the road, a sudden spread of mold along the base of the porch. If you look carefully, though, you’ll notice a reddening in the underbrush and the witch hazel’s first gaudy yellow tassels fluttering in the breeze. And yesterday afternoon a platoon of robins commandeered the flattened wildflower field, moving in formation as they picked their way through the soggy stubble. Thaw and freeze; freeze and thaw. There’s been no thick blanket of white this year. Instead, the remnants of our last storm have been scattered like used rags across the tired lawn for weeks now. The image of melting snow as laundry is one that the Pulitzer Prize-winning midwestern poet Ted Kooser employs below with his usual home-spun charm.
Late February
by Ted Kooser
The first warm day,
and by mid-afternoon
the snow is no more
than a washing
strewn over the yards,
the bedding rolled in knots
and leaking water,
the white shirts lying
under the evergreens.
Through the heaviest drifts
rise autumn’s fallen
bicycles, small carnivals
of paint and chrome,
the Octopus
and Tilt-A-Whirl
beginning to turn
in the sun. Now children,
stiffened by winter
and dressed, somehow,
like old men, mutter
and bend to the work
of building dams.
But such a spring is brief;
by five o’clock
the chill of sundown,
darkness, the blue TVs
flashing like storms
in the picture windows,
the yards gone gray,
the wet dogs barking
at nothing. Far off
across the cornfields
staked for streets and sewers,
the body of a farmer
missing since fall
will show up
in his garden tomorrow,
as unexpected
as a tulip.
Great poem . A new one for me.
Winter here in Maine this year was so mild and so little snow. Not like the winters of my childhood in southern Connecticut. I like a real winter.
Thanks, Cheryl. Rain, rain, and more rain in the Berkshires. I like a real winter, too!
At this time of year, I feel like a weary warrior headed home. Do like the image of strewn laundry being compared to the remnants of piles of melting snow. Every day since 2/15, I have noticed how the darkness is slowly fading at end of day. I look forward to the return of warmth and vow never to complain about hot days in August.
I like the image of the weary warrior heading home, Lorrin. Let’s hope we get there soon!
Perfect summary of this winter, so far – remember last March? Lovely poem with a jolt at the end.
Oh, I do remember last March — and secretly hope that we get that winter’s worth of snow at the end of it again this year.
Every time it snowed here in the city, it signaled a kind of jubilation. When the snow is rare, its appearance brings on a feeling of normalcy.
You’re right. And the city becomes magical (briefly) under a coating of white.
Perfect in every way!
Thank you, Phyllis.
This helps me push through a little further. It made me sad to see people taking photos of the first at a few snow falls we did have. I think it made me realize what a treasure it will be for some of us vs. a hindrance. Thanks for your hints of spring? End of winter observations and poem.
Glad I could help, Em.