In February
I cautiously part my curtains
like spreading the pages of an old hardcover
and look through my window.
Outside, flurries of snow dance silently
and fall in repose
like a dancer at the end of the first act
waiting for the curtains to close again.
Were I younger, perhaps,
I would leap to the foot of my bed
retrieving my thermal top
thermal bottoms
fluffy socks
snow pants
warm shirt
mittens
puffy coat
and knitted cap
before bounding out the door and
thrusting myself into the snow
a multicolored beast
ravaging the pure white landscape.
And were I older, perhaps,
I would close the curtains again
and harrumph to no-one in particular
before taking my leave in my easy chair
and waiting for a well-meaning neighbor
to complete my task for me.
And although my spirit is young
and my body feels older
I am still the right age for the task
so I trudge solemnly to the coat rack
and my thermal top
thermal bottoms
snow pants
warm shirt
gloves
insulated coat
and knitted cap
(the one from that ill-fated trip
to Yellowstone, where we drove
all day to arrive and find
the town completely closed and asleep)
and dispatch myself into the snow
to shovel it clear with
foul words and morning breath
in the cold winter air
until I finally return inside
strip off my layers
and shower in the hottest water
my skin can tolerate
before getting ready for the day.
And while this injustice now feels raw
I know for certain in two or three months
I’ll speak fondly of the silent snow
and the secrets it buries
watching through a curtained window
some early morning
in February.