Snowed-in

 

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.