It was a reminder
that February is still winter,
and that our rising plans
need patience built into them,
and that nature’s gifts
require our attention:

What looked like moonlight at 3 AM
proved itself a carpet
and a sweet wet falling
of night time snow,
and displayed itself, come morning,
as early brightness, and an invitation
to go out, to take it in, to be directly under
geese, in constant commentary,
emerging low over the woods
and landing in the pond

And hearing blackbirds with their morning exaltations,
and seeing blue stretched out along the white
in what became shadows when the sun emerged

It became a snow gone conclusion,
as is often the case,
augmenting our gratitude
for our brief immersion.

©Wendy Mulhern
February 14, 2023

This morning I woke up remembering a poem about snow I wrote some years back. Then a friend wrote asking if I had any snow poems. I went and found it (preserved on paper!) It was from 2002. It violates a couple rules I have for myself now about writing poetry, but I still find it sweet, and it sings itself to me in the tune of Tallis’ Canon.

Oh night! hold snowfall, soft and wet,
do not give up your magic yet —
bring us your silent world again,
stay white — do not succumb to rain

When daylight next suffuses skies,
let white on white enchant our eyes,
let all be softness, all be still,
your clean caress our senses fill

Oh night of snowfall, soft and wet,
do not give up your magic yet!
Lace in sweet cold to hold the spell,
to keep each snowflake as it fell.

©Wendy Mulhern
January 27, 2002