“Cold Snap”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

Single-digit trends

Our meteorologist tries to make amends

She smiles and shakes her head

With a feeling of dread

It has turned cold enough to make the walls creak and pop

To make my heartbeat stop

While I listen to the howling wind

Winter is here again

With little interest in a merciful fate

For anyone getting home too late

Stranded after dark

In drifts of snow that buried my residence park

Living this way

In a permanent state

Of humility enforced by need

Living low, crouched on my knees

This is the season of feeling annoyed

With few creature comforts deployed

Blankets over the windows

The trash barrel full of discarded Christmas bows

And me longing for a bottle of bourbon

Or a membership in a club, more urban

A place with a steam bath

A shelter from the frosty wrath

Of an old man on the mountain, flinging icicles

While I sit by an electric heater, getting pickled

Bottoms up my friend

Summer will be here again

To thaw these old bones

To resuscitate my Arctic home

But until that merry moment arrives

I’ll sit here begging God to let me fly

On wings that soar through the brisk bluster of white

Shivering in my bed all night

Glad for a single bulb that glows

Around the corner from my bedroom repose

Coughing up memories

Hoping the pipes don’t freeze

Knowing the full measure of what lies in store

When my feet hit the floor

Once upon a time, I used a wood stove to stay warm

Split logs, blazing red and orange, a primitive energy form

It worked well enough

When my body was younger and more physically tough

I yearn now for that satisfying burn

A survivor’s methodology used in modern terms

Smoke up the chimney

The house stayed around 70 degrees

Until morning meant working through mounds of ash

As the remnants of overnight crashed

I wore my storm coat in the living room

Used a galvanized bucket to scoop out the residue

Then reloaded the hot box

In preparation for another round of hard knocks

Hail falling on the roof like a marching band score

Racoons nipping at the door

Ice on their paws

All of us in the same condition, because

The seething seed of a western avalanche

Had arrived like new cattle on the ranch

A stampede of hooves scattering the muck

Flinging snowflakes at my pickup truck

As it sat out by the road

Stalled in a stormy overload

A shovel in hand

My work gloves secured with rubber bands

Around my wrists

Numbly punching through the mess with my fists

Clutching the handle, tightly sure

Cursing this tantrum of Mother Nature, inferred

It is spoken in a language that needs no translation

A dominant tongue

Shouted over the howl of bare branches twitching and bent

The forecast predicts it will be this way through Lent

After I have fallen asleep in my favorite chair

With a knit cap pulled over my longish, gray hair

There will be a moment to dream, perchance

With Long Johns under camouflage pants

I’ll snooze and snore

Pondering the chores

That await the awakening

When my cell phone rings

And I hear a friendly voice intone

“Thank goodness for our home, sweet home!”