Poetry Friday: Snowbound

After weeks of avoidance, I finally tackled the sestina which, Stephen Fry says, "is a bitch to explain but a joy to make." (This kind of commentary is why I love The Ode Less Travelled.)

I feel like I'm jumping the gun with the snow poetry, seeing as Chicago's only seen a light dusting that melted within a day, but snow's definitely on folks' minds. And I'm generally weather-obsessed. And to get "meta" for a moment, the sestina's strict form seems quietly oppressive—sort of like being snowed in.

Without further ado...
 

Snowbound

It’s January, and my family falls
asleep to storm warnings, drifts
through warm dreams, our blankets
shielding us a little longer. Still,
morning brings the truth. Close
to seventeen inches has stuck

to the streets, leaving us all stuck
at home. All day the snow falls.
We sigh and layer on warm clothes,
as snow gathers at the door in drifts.
The world outside is hushed and still,
draped in soft crystal blankets.

The news station issues a blanket
statement: all city plows stuck
plowing “important” roads. Still,
we hope. We visualize waterfalls,
rapids, hurricanes—anything but drifts
of powdered water, heavy and close.

When bedtime comes, I don’t close
the curtains. Wrapped in wool blankets,
I drowsily watch as each flake drifts
downward. I dream that I’m stuck
in a plastic snowglobe, trapped in its false
blizzard forever. When I wake, it’s still

snowing. Life is at a standstill,
every school and church closed.
Under the snow’s weight, a pine falls
across the road. New snow blankets
it, the clouds permanently stuck
on “high,” and once again the drifts

rise. I’m past bored. My mind drifts,
wondering if there’s a lesson to distill
from these days of confinement—stuck
with no one but family, in such close
quarters. No. My mind is blank. It’s
muffled more with every flake that falls.

Then night falls again on our snowy, still
world, and we all drift together, cuddling close,
blanket to blanket—for a moment content to be stuck.
 

Stephen Fry also writes of the sestina, "You can do it, believe me you can. And you will be so proud of yourself!" I grudgingly suppose he's right.

This week's Poetry Friday round-up is hosted by Holly Cupala Brimstone Soup. Please check it out!