“Snow provokes responses that reach right back to childhood.” |
“Snow provokes responses that reach right back to childhood.” The boy – no more than twelve or eleven – sits between two great piles of first-snow, shovel against the paneling. It’s cold out – but not cold enough he can’t shovel snow. He’s curled around a mug, gloves discarded on the sidewalk. He can feel his fingers again, almost, pressed against the hot ceramic. He sighs. He doesn’t mind much. It doesn’t snow often. It’s just a week before Christmas. Dad says it’s his Michigan blood. The boy shrugs. He doesn’t care, particularly. The snow’s cold. He’s cold. It’s a happy couple. Not that a cup of fresh hot cocoa is unwelcome either. Mother does know best, after all. Ten years. The man – no more than twenty one, twenty – sits between shoulders and shopglass, tiding the first-snow blizzard. It’s cold out – too risky for traveling. He’s hunched over the keyboard, laptop balanced on a paper tower. His fingers ache from typing so much for so long. He sighs. He doesn’t mind much. He doesn’t relax often. It’s just a week before the deadline. His editor calls. The man shrugs. He doesn’t care, particularly. The poetry’s rushed. He’s rushed. It’s a fitting couple. Not that a few lazy hours over a cup of joe is unwelcome either. It’s almost good as Mom’s peppermint-stick cocoa. The boy and man smile against snowflakes, sitting between and coaxing fingers, sharing first-snow. “I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world To be wonderful and youthful, after all.” ------------------------------- (28 lines; 9 December 2009 Writer’s Cramp quote-prompt “Snow provokes responses that reach right back to childhood. ~Andy Goldsworthy”; end quote from T.S. Eliot’s “Portrait of a Lady”. Edited 2 January 2009; evened out line lengths, finally understood the meaning of Pound's "condensation".) |