Ironic that on the 35th anniversary of the Blizzard of ’78, we’re preparing for another big snowstorm. I stopped at Market Basket on the way home from work and bought all the essentials needed to make French Toast which, as all of you who are recent arrivals should know, is how New Englanders traditionally prepare for blizzards. Once I got home, I topped off the fuel tank on my snow blower and started it up. Normally doing that would ensure the storm goes out to sea but I don’t think that will be the case. One weather map I’ve seen has us in the 18+ zone and another had us at 28+ but that was Fox and they tend to blow everything out of proportion. In related news, the predictions of pre-emptive school cancellations on Friday will probably be true; and the strained jokes about Winterfest being cancelled because of winter weather were funnier three years ago when the same thing happened. Unlike in 1978 when the only thing I had to record images of the storm was my mind, I have all cameras charged up and ready to record so the snow, however much there is, will be fully documented.
One Response to Storm Preparations
During February snowstorms souls are nurtured with words some of which contain sesame seeds, eggs, and milk with vitamin C & D. And there are other words, ones with expectations…
When I finally arrive there—
And it will take me through snowstorms and sunshine—
I believe you will be waiting
And your raggedy straw hair will glow.
I will reminisce about the forgotten—
The dry cough, the pajama-draped overshoes,
The sun gleaming off brightly fallen snow
Melting under some wild bird’s call.
Then I will perch on the couch,
My old legs like a frog, princely, laying on a lily pad,
And explain to you, under lavender sky, my world,
Its pale and crimson petals unfolding—
How the realms of my mind warm and ignite
As they connect, fire and explode.
And I will tell you how the breath of chaos arrives,
Exhales shadows that quake and keen.
My goose-bumped back hushes with reflection,
Longs for some fledgling dream,
And the streams overflow lifting debris
That dawdles at the shore of long ago songs—
Your fathomless pupils will look into my eyes
As your heathery hair emboldens spirals of blue,
Your silken strands ease this unkempt guest,
As you listen, gentle-eyed and silent.
–Daniel Patrick Murphy