White, Again

And the world has gone white.  All thoughts of spring have buried themselves in small drifts while a snow-crossed wind sings the day a solitary thing.  I would like to love it but I do not have heart enough today.

I'll keep from the window lest it lure me out, by memory of another day, into the small bite and bitter crunch of it.  I'll leave the field unmarked by my track.  I will not make a snowman, a snowcone or throw a snowball.  Those things, it would seem, are best left to earlier snows, the snows of December.

Linguists tell us the Artic people have many names for snow.  I wonder if they have a name for the last of a winter's snow?  The snow that has lost all charm. The snow that seems a barrier to the greening spring we so lovingly considered close at hand.  A seemingly deliberate, a seemingly cruel obstacle between us and our hearts desire.  An old testament snow come to punish our many transgressions. A snow come to purge us of our many desires.

At this point in my musing profanities begin to come to mind.  Maybe I'll go out after all.  Maybe I'll go out and raise a meaningless fist to the sky and say no to the thing that would bring my sweet dreams of spring to an end. Or maybe I'll just go back to bed and pull the covers over my head.

Whatever the Innuit name of these late snows may be, I think it must include exhaustion and a certain bitterness.  I think it must include a turned back.  I think it also must include, alongside the bitterness, a deep gratitude for the warmth of the bed,  the softness of a pillow. And maybe a bowl of soup? Hot and delicious.  The Inuit, do they have a word for crackers?