Winter Walk

Poem No. 142

There is something both romantic and melancholy about winter that I can never quite put into words, though I do keep trying.

This poem I wrote last year comes close:

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Winter Walk

As our friends, the quiet deer,
bear witness from the field
that once was an orchard,

we weave new trails
through fresh snow
along the canal,

our banter hanging
bright and loose
in the air behind us.

Proof we were here
for a moment
and we were laughing.

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A lot of my poetry grapples with the complexity of experiencing infinite beauty in finite time, from within a mortal body. I’m often trying to capture a beautiful moment before it slips away, but gently — in words that acknowledge it is slipping away, and the slipping itself is part of the beauty.

I think that’s why I write about winter so often. For me, a good snow feels immense and fragile at the same time. Vast, yet so temporary.

A bit like life, I suppose.

And, though melancholy, I don’t find this thought depressing in the least.

I have no idea if the deer remember that day along the canal. (I like to think so; we are very good friends…) The snow that recorded our path is certainly gone, melted into the river within a few weeks, and the staccato steam of our banter lasted only a few seconds.

But I remember that day. I remember the joy in Petra’s laughter. I remember realizing no record of our perfect moment existed, aside from our breath in the air, our bootprints along the canal, and the memories of the deer watching us. I treasure this awareness of life’s fragility, whenever it comes to me.

I don’t know that I would have it very often at all, if not for poetry.

If you would like to share this poem somewhere, I would be very honored. I happen to have this handy image for you:

Thanks for reading,
~ A

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