Poem: The First Snow (Audio)

Welcome to the new face of Word Storm!

After I finished my MBA, I did some tweaking, and I commissioned a lovely graphic artist to design a new cover photo because dragons and tea, travel and thunderstorms. ISN’T IT PRETTY!? Thanks again, Rowa!

But I don’t just have a new cover photo for you. I also spent a good deal of time in December recording the published poems and the Reader’s Choice from 2018, and I’ll be doing some more recordings this year as well. Poetry isn’t just meant to be read on a computer screen, but it’s also meant to be read and shared aloud.

The First Snow

The first snow is fleeting,

fluttering one moment and

                                                melted the next—

but to the driver going to work, she is a blinding sleet,

cascading, bottling up your light and tossing it back—

to the biker heading home, she is the needles,

while the flesh is the pincushion and throw.

The second snow is silent,

drifting down in spurts

                                                taking turns with the sun—

but to the magpie fighting the wind, she is a rip current,

a tether caught on feathers, holding back branches—

to the red rooftops sloping here, she is but a coat,

taken off and folded up indoors.

The third snow is loud,

crackling thunder

                                                howling wind—

but to the mother waiting for a call, she is but a sound

of wailing, complaining, she’s heard it all before—

to the child waiting for a taste of dusted sugar,

she is a touch of dreams, sleigh bells, and numb fingers.

***

For more audio poetry, check out my Poetry page and don’t forget to subscribe to my YouTube channel!

Let’s chat! What do you think of the new design? Enjoy the audio additions? What did you think of this poem?

Similar poems: Biking to Work, Snowfell, and In Season

Poem: Biking to Work

I didn’t used to like biking. Before I found a decent bicycle that fit me right. Before I had to rely on biking as my only means of transportation. Before I became accustomed to the sheen of sweat that coated my arms afterwards.

Now, I don’t mind it so much. I enjoy it actually. Back when I was living in England, I had to bike everywhere. It was either that or walk (sloooooooow) or take the bus (muggy and wasting money better spent on books). Now, I don’t need to bike. Even though I’m still living in Europe, I have my international license and can drive wherever I want.

But I still like to bike. I used to bike to the library once a week because it was less stressful than driving. Recently, I started a new job that requires me to leave the house, and I still like to bike there. Sure, there are hills. But it’s mostly downhill on the way home. Sure, I’ll take the car on days when it’s 94 degrees Fahrenheit. I don’t want to pass out. But I enjoy the feel of biking overall.

Biking to Work

on a week that’s not “official”

            is what I do regularly,

even if it’s not typical.

            I like the feel of wind-blown hair,

the smell of wooded, damp bike paths,

            the flutter of a butterfly,

the blue-tinged wings of a dragon,

            the way my heart pounds as I race

down the hillside or climb another.

           

“Don’t you want to take the car?” —or—

“I admire your tenacity.”—

these words I hear as I snatch up

my helmet, secure my sunglasses.

Why would I want to take the car?—

gas emitter, rusted machine,

air-conditioned environment

where I have to remember not

to lose my calm, to breath normal,

not to talk to other drivers

who cannot hear me anyway.

Why would I want to feel the stress?—

                        peak

and ebb

like sea waves, ruled by mistress moon—

stop and go and stop—STOP.

Why not weave along the bike path

            with the occasional walker?

Why not wait at a crosswalk,

            heart beating away today’s stress?

Maybe for an audio book,

I might drive.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? How do you get to work, or do you work from home? Do you enjoy riding a bike?

Similar poems: Still Life in Spring, Ether, and The Crow and the Heron