23. Chinese New Year, light flurries
I didn’t notice
that it was even snowing
til flakes touched my face

24. Free’s birthday, >1”
The gate was frozen shut
from a week of freezing rain
So I had to bring the trash
all the way around from the front
and through the alley
in just my slippers
with a blanket over my shoulders for warmth.

And on the way back
from this unexpected walk
it started to snow,
hard enough
that I was covered in white
before I made it back inside.

25. Unniversary, ice ½”
The app said snow
but at 9 it was raining
and something was falling
but not accumulating
and at 10 it was snow.
In the dark after midnight
the app buzzed a warning
and when I woke up
the garage door was stuck
from the ice that had fallen towards morning

26. Same day, less than an inch
The ice storm segued
into a maelstrom
of blinding, blowing, blizzard
freezing hatless schoolboys
with red ears and dripping noses
frozen fingers clumsily texting home
that it’s really windy
and it’s really cold
and it’s really slippery
and they’re going to be late.

27. Mid February, still snowing (2”)
I saw the first snowflake.
Only one, lazily drifting, solitary
just for a moment
as I waited on my stoop with my coffee,
wrapped in a blanket against the cold,
looking for the storm.

I didn’t understand at first
what I was seeing.
There is no such thing as “a” snowflake
one, singular, alone.
Snowflake is a multitude, plural,
not so much countless as uncountable.

Yet there it was
as I stood alone in the dawn
as though it had a right to say
See me! I am One.

28. Mid February, still snowing (4”)
I remember
standing in a field
at the edge of Urbana
watching last year’s corn stubble
slowly disappear
under the relentless silent snow.

In the city it never gets
quite quiet enough
to not-hear
the unsound
that falling snow
doesn’t make.

29. Late February, less than an inch, + ice
My neighbors scurry past
muffled to anonymity
heads bent angrily
against the stinging snow
planting their feet deliberately
in a careful rush
to get out of the accumulating ice

RAIN BREAK. Late February heavy rain
A gaudy knit cap,
pancaked by a plow,
peaks from a melting mound of dirty snow.
Cold winter rain
inching us towards spring.

30. Late February, still snowing
Another grey cold day
desultory flakes
descending from a dismal sky
I think about spring at winters end
and like a car sick child
I stare out the window and whine,
“are we there yet?”

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