Monday, March 17, 2014

March Snow

This morning, snow once again devours the ground which has not even had time to consider new grass.  That's how long winter has lasted, and for the most part, I am with others who tired of the white giant months ago.  While amusing during the necessary cold months, snow's icy fingers turn more menacing as they try to strangle spring, one last effort to prolong the life of a lovely creature turned fiend.  I cannot write an ode to snow because I cannot condone its actions.  But I can write this.

Snow has not lost all its beauty.  It still beguiles us, turns our heads, undulates until we stare or snap photos to post on Facebook, as if frozen things were pale centerfolds.  Snow is a striptease, half baring branches, blowing in our ears, covering us in its own lust, distracting us when what we really want is the sun.  I'm no longer vested in walking in the snow.  It's just too damn cold.  But I daydream.

I used to wander and take pictures, upload them to blogs, revel in the mystery.  I find myself missing those days.  I've turned lazy and soft, preferring to gawk at beauty through window, like a voyeur.  My actions make me feel guilty, like I've managed to avoid temptation but not the longing for another time. I want to be seduced again, even at this late date.  The ogre bares its teeth and grins, and I cannot look away.

Aging has nothing to do with it.  I'm not in the throws of some midlife crisis or existential funk.  I don't plan to buy a Corvette convertible, bleach my hair blond, pump collagen into my lips and cake makeup over my crows feet.  I'm not about to divorce my husband and run screaming passionately into the storm, dragging an eager camera with me.  But I do wish I had the will to dare a touch or two without worrying I'd be giving away spring.

Does any of this make sense, this ambivalence, this borderline illness that lures me to absorb the strength of winter?  Will I cave to its threatening beauty?  Will I grasp the hand that is the snowstorm and let it pull me through the window, into the deep freeze, the fields that gladly accept my tender footsteps, one woman in the inevitable?  Or will I light the fireplace? 

Please, someone.  Pray for sunshine.  Then pass me some wood and a match.  
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