Where do all our flakes come from?

© harrington

Welcome. I hope the sight of snow doesn't shock you too much, especially as a contrast to our current 90°+ heat wave. It goes with today's bioregional Where you at quiz question: "8.    From what direction do winter storms generally come in your region?" Since both snow and rain fall "down", the obvious answer is "up." On a more serious note, the prevailing Winter winds in Minnesota are consistently from the Northwest. This means that Winter storms generally come from the Northwest (Alberta clipper, anyone?).

Tomorrow's question "9.    Where does your garbage go?" is going to require us to decide whether it refers to garbage as only food waste, or in the more generic sense as all trash. The answers vary significantly.

 You might want to take a break from thinking about your garbage to enjoy this Hayden Carruth poem about other aspects of Winter storms.

I Know, I Remember, But How Can I Help You

By Hayden Carruth

The northern lights.         I wouldn’t have noticed them

    if the deer hadn’t told me

    a doe         her coat of pearls         her glowing hoofs

                      proud and inquisitive

                      eager for my appraisal

and I went out into the night with electrical steps

    but with my head held also proud

                      to share the animal’s fear

                      and see what I had seen before

    a sky flaring and spectral

                      greenish waves and ribbons

and the snow         under strange light         tossing in the pasture

    like a storming ocean caught

                      by a flaring beacon.

    The deer stands away from me         not far

                      there among bare black apple trees

                      a presence I no longer see.

    We are proud to be afraid

                      proud to share

the silent magnetic storm that destroys the stars

                      and flickers around our heads

    like the saints’ cold spiritual agonies

                      of old.

I remember         but without the sense         other light-storms

    cold memories discursive and philosophical

                      in my mind’s burden

    and the deer remembers nothing.

We move our feet         crunching bitter snow         while the storm

    crashes like god-wars down the east

                      we shake the sparks from our eyes

    we quiver inside our shocked fur

                      we search for each other

    in the apple thicket—

                      a glimpse, an acknowledgment

    it is enough and never enough—

we toss our heads         and say good night

    moving away on bitter bitter snow.

Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily, often with a relish of poetry.