An extra hour of sleep is snow-ushered in
as if time and the elements colluded.
And yesterday the city’s good citizens
were raking last leaves, tarping
patio furniture. Even us. The garden draped
in crackling blue plastic
weighted with old-fashioned bricks.
One day into winter
and we’re surfing foreclosures
on Vancouver Island. My bed calls,
the window draws my heavy eyes
to the white sky and raspberry canes
bent under the fresh weight of snow.
Winter wipes away.
It calls for snowy owls.
And Qualicum Beach: oldest mean population
In Canada. Will I surrender?
The neighbours did not get their trampoline
packed up. Nail-sized icicles decorate
the eaves of the dilapidated garage.
A woman in the alley sweeps heaps of snow
off her compact white car
and it stops resembling a sleeping polar bear.
The skeletal plum trees’ throw graphic shadows
against the cedar fence. The light sharpens
and before my gaze the snow-garden softens:
cat’s paw-prints across the deck
become pocks, become larger nothings.
Winter advocates slowness. It compels us
to sincerely see.
Qualicum: republic of retirees.
Difficult to fathom green winters.
Nights without a furnace’s calming push
An extra hour to these new days.
I allocate mine to snow.
-Shelley A. Leedahl