The BOOKPRESS | December 1998 |
Snow
Before Winter
Who would have expected
The snow shovel is
buried
I go on my own,
Is this how astronauts
felt
— Peggy Billings
Peggy Billings is a
poet living near Trumansburg, NY.
snow so soon?
The fields are lost;
So is the wheelbarrow,
left leaning against the shed.
Gutters not yet emptied
of leaves,
sag; and
the empty feeder swings
in an aimless arc.
behind rakes and digging forks.
Only the ice salt
with a plastic spoon
is in its place on the porch.
In a jumble of boots
and gloves and caps,
we go out to excavate the car.
Downtown in Ithaca,
the trees in DeWitt Park
still have their leaves;
yellow, red, even
green, but white-trimmed now,
a wild mix of dress to rival ours.
to wander in and out of shops.
Emerging from one,
I feel lost
in the cold, fading light.
It is only three p.m.,
but
the world is turned on edge.
Sidewalks slant, signs
waver and blur.
I turn back toward the Library.
Though no cars are
coming, I wait
for the light at Cayuga and Buffalo.
leaving earth for the moon?
Did the first sea-creature
to flop up on land
gasp for breath like this?
What I’m really asking
is if I will survive
the Darwinian leap of another Ithaca winter.
Or did I grow one
set of gills too many
in Mississippi’s humid heat,
which though vestigial,
will always
ache in arctic air?
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