Minnesota Minnesota:
Delicate snowfall blankets
your barren ground.
The first flake of white
captures lustful eyes
sparks awe within passersby.
The second flake,
a dainty doily from the sky.
The third,
the fourth,
the fifth...
They fall and they fall
until they become one pure coat
of polished white.
The next morning:
briskness stirs me out
of the comforting cave
of pillows and blankets.
I only move from my bed
in order to see the pristine beauty
that blessed the earth the day before.
But what,
what is that?
That dingy bear sleeping on the curbside?
It is a hill of snow,
no longer clean,
depressing to look at,
disgusting to touch.
I step outside,
expecting the radiant sunshine to melt
my frozen features,
but I am struck
with a wisp of wind
so fierce
it hurts my face.
Tears leak from my eyes
but freeze to my skin,
leaving racing strips of mascara
cascading down my cheeks.
I hustle to class,
cutting through buildings
chasing the warmth that cannot manage
to remain inside my
seventeen layers of insulation.
My hand skin dries,
cracks,
breaks,
bleeds.
The money I spend on lotion alone
is enough to feed a small child.
I reach for the door handle
of the classroom building.
My hand jumps back in fright.
So cold it feels hot,
I pry the door open and
release a long-kept sigh
of relief,
a new found appreciation for warmth.
As I sit in class,
attention wanes,
my eyes glaze over
like a fresh pastry,
as I daydream into the wonderland outside.
Gorgeous.
Why did I complain so much about this winter again?
Icicles dangling from the precipices of
frosty buildings;
Trees clothed in
spaghetti straps of snow;
Sunlight reflecting
off every inch
of that luminous lace.
Brilliant.
As I sweat under my
layers of sweatshirts,
I almost forget how hard
the winter bites into my skin.
Leaving teethmarks of chill.
I remember why I moved here.
Just look at that natural iridescence.
I bundle back up.
Walk out the door.
My breath flees my lungs.
Ah yes.
I remember now.
The prickling pain
of the negative degrees.
But it is just a five minute
power walk from here to there.
Then I am free to embrace
the grace of the Minnesota winter
from the comfort of my comforter.
A steaming cup of something
thawing my ice blocks of fingers.
I love the cold,
but I hate being cold.
I suffer the cold outside
because the artist
Mother Nature
paints a picture so glorious
it makes one forget
what suffering even is.
I close my eyes and
drift to sleep,
weighted by blankets,
just as the earth is blanketed by winter.
