January 13, 2025: "Birthday Poem for My Grandmother," My Father, "Yellow Snow"

More snow in the forecast for tonight into tomorrow.  Around five or so inches, if the weather gods are right.  I haven't been outside since I got home this evening, so I don't know if this little squall has started yet.  I'll probably just wait and see what tomorrow morning brings.

My father was a snow warrior.  He took it as a personal affront if there was snow piled up on his property.  Even in his 80s, he would spend hours behind his snow blower, scraping all of his parkways and walkways down to cement.

Sharon Olds communes with her grandmother . . . 

Birthday Poem for My Grandmother

by: Sharon Olds

(for L.B.M.C., 1890-1975)

I stood on the porch tonight--     which way do we

face to talk to the dead?     I thought of the

new rose,     and went out over the

grey lawn--     things really

have no color at night.     I descended

the stone steps,     as if to the place where one

speaks to the dead.     The rose stood

half-uncurled,     glowing white in the

black air.     Later I remembered

your birthday.     You would have been ninety and getting

roses from me.     Are the dead there

if we do not speak to them?     When I came to see you

you were always sitting     quietly in the chair,

not knitting,     because of the arthritis,

not reading,     because of the blindness,

just sitting.     I never knew how you

did it or what you were thinking     Now I

sometimes sit on the porch,     waiting,

trying to feel you there like the color of the

flowers in the dark.

Sitting on her porch, doing nothing as darkness comes on, Sharon Olds is reminded of her long-dead grandmother.  It's so strange how the smallest thing, like the color of a rose at night, can summon the specters of lost loved ones.

Snow makes me think of my dad all the time.  He hated and loved it.  Many mornings, I'd wake to the sound of him blowing snow outside my bedroom window.  (He started early--sometimes 4 a.m.  And, no, our neighbors did not appreciate his zealotry for snow removal.)  

I inherited a little of my dad's obsession, but many years ago I succumbed to the convenience of hiring a person to plow for me.  Still one of the best decisions of my life, although my father would have scoffed at my laziness.

It was my first day of teaching for the semester, and, as I was walking to class this afternoon, I noted the slippery streets and sidewalks.  Students were skidding and falling all around me.  Suffice to say, my dad would have been disgusted with the university's attempt at snow maintenance.  

It is now 10 p.m., and one of my neighbors has decided to take his snow blower for a spin in the dark.  My father would have approved, for sure.  Me?  I'm simply annoyed by the noise.  It's almost as if my father's ghost is outside my window, still battling winter almost seven years after he died.  I guess it's better than rattling chains and moans.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about yellow snow, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

On this day in 1610, Galileo Galilei discovered Ganymede, the fourth moon of Jupiter.  Write a poem where you discover something and name it.  It could be moons of planets, a new type of flower, a new animal species, a unique rock or mineral, or a new type of music.  Make the poem as funny or serious as you like by creating whimsical silly names (such as the Laizee--a new breed of French Poodle that hangs out on the porch) or names that sound as if they fell out of a scientific guide (such as a flower called the iris vangoghus or the cactus dontsithere).

Yellow Snow

by: Martin Achatz

My older sister told me not
to eat yellow snow as a kid
without explaining why or where
I could find this golden brand
of winter. For many years,
I searched encyclopedias, atlases,
maps for this fabled monarchy
where snow piled up like frozen
sunbeams and at night you
grabbed shining, cold fists
of light to guide you through
the dark toward home. I named
the country Flaxeny. Eventually,
I understood the joke played
on me when a middle school
buddy fished out his penis
on a winter walk and pissed
on a mound of white, told me
not to eat it with a laugh.
I laughed, too, although it felt
as if something precious had been
stolen from me, like the belief
in Santa Claus or that moment
right after your first real kiss
when you taste your love’s ham
sandwich in your mouth. Even now,
so long after that disappointment,
I still think of that January
kingdom with tree branches
gilded like the pages of an old
book and rivers flowing with
lemonade at spring thaw.