Sunday Poems 56: Snow at last

Winter comes eventually. For readers outside of Edmonton, know that it got very cold this week. It was late. We'd had virtually no snow until December, which is very unusual. This far north, the sun sets early. With no snow on the ground, this means it's dark for much of the day. Once the streets, parks, sidewalks, and roofs are wrapped in icy flakes, however, the evenings become bright.

The moon brings light to us by reflecting light from the sun. It's a beautiful moment when you you happen on a pond in the summertime and the moon is reflected in it, a second mirror. When our planet's small neighbor in the sky is over fresh fallen snow, it is like a billion powdered mirrors turning the air into a glow, which could feel otherworldly if it weren't also perfect.

This week, there's the cold as well, but I'd prefer not to think about that. I'm writing this from inside a warm apartment. Soon I get to go to bed. I will turn the lamp off and it will be replaced by a glow from outside the window. The snow can't help it.

Sundays are good days to put on a second pair of socks. Maybe a third. Maybe take a midday nap to forget about the cold. Maybe take a bath and once you're out of the bath fill up a hot water bottle as a companion. (no pets allowed in your apartment.) Below is a poem. If you'd like, consider sharing it with a friend. As always, I'm here if you need to talk. Have a great week, everybody.


a full ice cube tray

you never
grew out of it

concrete and
silver cloth, cold
even in the afternoon

black and white
hounds tooth pants
across the train car

where do you live now?
paused in the middle of the bridge over the river

shaking in fresh knits,
maybe from the cold
embarrassed to be seen
anywhere so growing hair out
a soft layer on the head
your own body as a companion

you told me that you
never sat in a room you liked
you show your claws to tabletops
it's embarrassing
your posture
could be better

the bus stops outside the bar

"i'm gonna write a book too.
i don't know what i'm gonna write about.
see ya later."

it's winter


Theodore Fox is a poet living on Treaty Six land in Canada.
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