Late Winter

I crave a thunderstorm.

Weeks and weeks and months of snow-thaw-slush-freeze,

Salt and shovel cabin fever, too-sharp sun,

Tailgaters, white knuckles,

Back-breaking snowthrowing spade-wielding salting.

“Global cooling?” chortle the drooling doubters.

Huddling under down, watching each step.

Who might slip, and fracture, and sue?

More salting. And more, more, more, more damn salting.

I long for the lightning’s rip,

The seconds-delayed crash,

The light patter, the crescendo rush,

The aromatic symphony

Of drenched mulch and steamy asphalt.

An assault; a caress.

I’m a winter being, but

Good Lord, how

I crave a thunderstorm.


About wordczar

Long-time journalist. I think far too many people have been deliberately and cynically misinformed by Rupert Murdoch and his henchmen. I'm hoping we can get to the truth and clear some things up, to get this nation back on track. Follow and contact me on Twitter @word_czar (photo of Brooklyn Bridge by Teresa Reinalda)
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2 Responses to Late Winter

  1. Tom Guadagno (DailyEngHelp) says:

    I know exactly how you feel and so does my back, hands. and arms. Here in NYC and on Long Island, I’ve been shoveling snow since December. We are living with eight to twelve feet walls of snow all around us. There is absolutely no where else to put any additional accumulations. Your message resonates well with me.
    I also love the poem’s imagery, sound devices, and metaphors. You’re a good writer. I read your “stuff” quite often, and I like and relate to almost everything you put out there in Twitterland.

    • wordczar says:

      Thanks, Tom.
      A native New Jerseyan, I have lots of family in the Garden State and in New England. I know that region’s been walloped this winter. We just got hit with 20″ overnight.
      Hope you’re holding up OK. The thaw’s coming, and the grass and trees will be that much greener for all this snow.

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