November 25, 1994 (I was 60)
Snowed-in
as in a thousand poems
before
in a split-log Sierra
cabin,
held stationary by snow
that has strained my back,
and kept indoors by
blizzard winds
that would obliterate in
white transformation
even my steadiest pace.
In my life I have moved
away from arctic influences,
and I visit only to play.
In similar circumstances
winters ago, I’d have
speculated upon the nature
of isolation and frailty
and fate,
some image of the Donner
party and cold beauty
or the sound of plows
moving in and out of fog
as they went about their
relentless business.
Winters ago I’d have looked
for an internal meaning
and revelation of an
ambiguous truth.
Now I know white snow of
midday is blue in the evening,
and vociferous wind is
seldom sustained.
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