October 22: "Snakes in Winter," Rimed with White, Therapy

Mary Oliver and serpents . . . 

Snakes in Winter

by:  Mary Oliver

Deep in the woods,

under the sprawled upheavals of rocks,

dozens lie coiled together.

Touch them:  they scarcely

breathe; they stare

out of such deep forgetfulness

that their eyes are like jewels--

and asleep, through they cannot close.

And in each month the forked tongue,

sensitive as an angel's ear,

lies like a drugged muscle.

With the fires of spring they will lash forth again

on their life of ribs!--

bodies like whips!

But now under the lids of the mute

succeeding snowfalls

they sleep in their cold cauldron:  a flickering broth

six months below simmer.

The world is getting ready for its long winter's nap.  Like the snakes in Oliver's poem, the woods and lakes around me will soon fall into a state a deep forgetfulness until the fires of spring lash forth again.  The flickering broth of snow and ice is just below the horizon of sunrise.

Winter used to be my favorite season of the entire rolling year.  Until I grew up and had to shovel that

shit.  Nowadays, I'm a summer addict.  I love stepping outside my front door at 1 a.m. and hearing the peepers and crickets sending up their summer ostinato to the stars and moon.  Love not having to worry about heating bills and frozen water pipes.  

Unfortunately, eight months of the year, the Upper Peninsula is rimed with white.

This evening, I led an online poetry workshop.  Several of my best poetry friends showed up to write with me.  It's one of my favorite things to do on Sunday nights,  kicking off a new week with fellowship and laughter and poems.  It puts me in a positive frame of mind to face the inevitability of another Monday.  Tonight, especially, was good therapy for me--all of the writing prompts based on some of my favorite poems by some of my favorite poets.

Yes, I said therapy, because poetry does elicit strong emotional responses from me.  As does writing.  The thought of winter does bring on doldrums in me.  Like Oliver's snakes, I just want to find a hole, crawl into it, and wait for the world to thaw.  Picking up pen and journal, or sitting down with my laptop to tap out a blog post, is therapeutic.  Often, after I'm done writing, I feel energized, as if my soul/psyche has just risen from a long hibernation.

Winter is on the way.  I can taste it in the air like wood smoke.  Soon, my little part of the world will be an Ansel Adams winterscape--all monochrome and frozen.

But Saint Marty is warm tonight because of the simmer of friends and words and poetry.