For 2022, I challenged myself to write a poem for every month (“poem,” of course, being a very loose concept). I didn’t so much care that they described the weather outside, but more my internal weather. And yet, so far I’ve found it’s funny how much the two coincide. Some are fun, some are just descriptive, and some (like today’s) are a little bit heavy. Anyway, here’s my January poem.
It’s supposed to snow tonight
Everyone is excited—
Until I fall from the sky
And hear them all groan.
I am snow
But not what they were hoping for.
They envisioned a day of snowmen and snow angels ahead.
They’re disappointed that their plans have changed.
They were planning to sit by the warm fire,
Cuddled up with soft cozy blankets,
And watch me fall softly and silently on the ground outside their windows.
It’s an idyllic scene
But it won’t happen.
Because I don’t fall silently.
I fall with a constant light clicking sound against their window,
Like a cat's paws scampering across a hardwood floor.
They won’t get their picturesque beauty.
I am good for making the roads slick and dangerous, just enough to keep you from getting where you need to be.
They’re disappointed.
Be real snow, they say.
Or be rain.
Or be sunshine.
Or be anything else other than what you are.
But I am snow.
Just not what they were hoping for.
I am not silent.
I am not soft.
I am not dainty.
I am noisy.
I am dangerous.
And I guess I’m a little irritating.
But I’m not sure what to do about it.
I never asked anyone else what they were expecting.
I never asked what they were hoping for.
I just came into the world and found that they were hoping for something else.
And they’ll find it another day.
That, and rain and sunshine too.
But for now they have the light clicking sound against their windows to remind them of what they have now.
I am not what they were hoping for,
But I am snow.
