As much as I am not a fan of winter, sometimes I must confess that the scenery is downright breath-taking. There is nothing quite like snow on fully-skirted spruces, fresh deer track, or ice crystals on finely-twigged alders to give rise to verse. The name I have coined for this is “snowetry.”
I am a person who tends to get shack-wacky when I am stuck at home, but sometimes being snowbound is not so bad at all. It can provide one with a much-needed change of pace, an excuse to kick back and do whatever one loves best. In my case, that of course is writing. During a recent blizzard, the following piece emerged:
Sometimes snowbound satisfies and eases
Sunday soul, with extra hours to stanza-scribe,
spans to laze and loll. Sometimes snowbound
fascinates, filling fancy’s feathered plume
with sonnet and sestina, sijo and senryu.
Sometimes snowbound sparkles with crystalline
clarity, solstice stars more scintillating
than on any August eve. Sometimes snowbound
wins and warms winter-weary heavy heart,
as hearth-fire’s engaging crackle creates
captivating spell. Sometimes snowbound
motivates meditative mind and mood,
musings swiftly scribbled in introspective inks.