It's not really winter anymore.
Trucks bring oranges at my whim.
Airplanes take me south, then north again.
It's not really winter anymore.
I've never even owned a horse,
But have a decorative fireplace, of course.
It's more gentle and through a lens,
Allusions to other times, same land,
When cold and death walked hand in hand.
No, it's not winter anymore.
But there's a picture on the wall
With Grandma's home-knit winter shawl.
-W. B. Picklesworth
this poem is an echo of the kierkegaardian sentiment which
holds that christianity has become too easy
people go to church out of social habit and there's nothing
in it to challenge or inspire
in the same manner technology has made winter
almost like a difficult but tolerable moment
whereas one can reflect upon a day when
people knew they could easily die and knew the
preparations that were required to offsett
the possibility of death on the open prairie
truth is
many lost their lives to winter
at some point people had to decide
that despite the fact that winter could kill you
it is somehow worth the effort to
create conditions that would make living
in this part of the world more tolerable
but at what real price??
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"How did you come to die?,"
the shades ask, seeing no wound.
My answer will define my fate,
though I know not how.
I was crossing the wastes,
the wind lashing my face,
ripping at my beard,
heavy with ice.
And then, impossibly,
I caught a scent of roses,
and followed its lead,
away from my path.
To a blooming hedge I came.
Can there be flowers in winter?
Can green things live in the howling gale?
What can it mean?
In haste, I climbed,
On cresting the top,
I looked upon her,
then she looked back.
this takes away the breath
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