A Blizzard Poem…
Two hundred or more ice-crystals form one incredible flake
surrounding a tiny speck of dust driven to the clouds by the wind.
So beautiful and shiny when they begin to fall;
our faces turn up, tongues out, to catch the cold sweetness
churning icy crystals to sting and drift.
The winter of 1880-seven months of blizzard-
tunneling to livestock, wood, and water,
the snow just kept coming
October until April-living on whatever could be found.
Days started warm and fair,
blizzards snuck in like conquering armies-
no arrows gave warning, no Highland cries or buglers.
Just a whisper of a breeze
before the steel grey clouds consumed the sun,
and everything turned to biting snow, bitter cold, a battle to survive.