The boots are on.
Laced up tight.
Little Xs pulling things together
(Are those hugs or kisses?)
No matter.
When you’re giving winter the boot,
either
is a good message to wear.
![20170322_154305[1]](https://shawnbird.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/20170322_1543051.jpg?w=548&h=975)
Fluevog.com Miracles Logan boots from the “Narrative of the Grey Boot Quest” blog post.
I always feel slightly super powered when I wear these boots, though I can’t wear them if I’m running late for work since it takes 4 minutes per boot to lace them up! 🙂
The sky could not be bluer
turquoise and ocean and bright summer day
captured on the snow piled like icing on the trees,
but on the horizon
a wall of charcoal grey
hints at a blizzard on its way.
I watch through the window and hope
I’m home before it hits.
The ground hog said spring was coming
but the snow falling outside my window
begs to differ.
The vehicles wind along the highway
a immobile caterpillar
stalled by a moment
when the physics of motion, energy, and force
spun unfortunates into each other’s path
with a crash
that froze the goings
and made everyone in the long line
contemplate mortality.
.
.
.
The stretch of the TransCanada Highway between Sicamous and Salmon Arm is a frequent site of accidents. I usually count on having to detour from work 3 times each winter. Today was the third, and there are 2 months of winter left. Our thoughts are with those who were involved in the accident, and medi-vacced out.
I’m moving through molasses
going slowly,
thinking like my thoughts are spilled ink
too dark to decipher.
Winter weather draws the sky closer,
closeting us in cloud,
so much white is blinding.
Days are short, but oh, so, slow
and cold.
We are waiting.
The cloud reclines darkly above the lake.
The snow line drops lower.
The cold creeps and seethes.
Inside, bricks channel the chill.
Children vibrate, “It’s coming! It’s coming!”
It’s so hard to sit still and concentrate.
Adults sniffle and cough, mutter, “Soon. Soon.”
They dream of freedom, warmth, of sleeping in.
Christmas holidays can’t come
quickly enough.
Snow hugs the hills and
draping lower with slow purpose.
Flakes flip and fall, settle for a moment
Their white crystals paradoxically painting pavement black.
Winter is coming closer with every flake.
The clouds sink
obscuring hills with billows:
silver, grey, charcoal, black.
Heavy clouds in cold air
ready to coat the highway with danger.
We gaze out our windows
wondering whether we’ll get home before
the first storm of this winter.
Two geese fly
over the lake
bringing spring
with each flap
of their wings.
Shawn L. Bird 