The Coming Storm

The Coming Storm (Written February 24, 2013)

Where for the coats, the hats and scarves?
Where for this heavy winter garb?
What comes to make us tarry so,
Before we take our things and go?

“It’s coming, it’s coming” the people say,
But what is it that comes this way?
Someone important, or someone to fear?
What is it that slowly is drawing near?

‘A monster’ some call it, others ‘a beast’
So the something that’s coming is living at least,
But then when I asked the other day
The man at the window answered this way:

“No, not alive, nor quite dead at all,
Under neither assumption would this coming guest fall.
It isn’t a king, nor is it a queen,
But closer we come to the truth being seen.

“A prince of sorts, this fellow is.
The coming guest is one of his,
A gift, you could say, though cautiously,
For this gift is not given in charity.

“The giver is not a friend to us,
Nor does he give because he must,
He does it for pleasure, joy at our pain,
And enjoys it enough to do it again.

“Year after year, day after day,
He waits for his chance to go out and play.
And when the chance comes, when he gets what he wants,
He uses each bit of the power he flaunts.

“Out of the clouds the princeling rides,
In banks of white flurries his horses hide.
His frosty blue eyes gleam with his win,
For soon another war will begin.

“Out comes the sun and the princeling flees,
Away from the warmth its dawning breaths,
He has lost, once again, but is not dismayed,
For soon, he is sure, he will have his way.

“But don’t worry, just bundle up nice,
I’m sure you’ll be fine in the coming ice,
This princeling’s a coward, through and through,
So just be polite and you’ll make it through.”

He said goodbye and I turned away,
Thinking about what he’d had to say.
But when I turned with my thanks for his answer and care,
The window was empty and frost in the air.


Well, that ended up being a very long poem. I hadn’t intended for it to be so long, but, well, there it is. If you’ve ever been to Colorado  you know that February and March are the blizzard months here. We are right in the middle of one of those storms now, and I wanted to right a poem about snow. I wanted to write it so that the winter seemed as mysterious in the poem as it always did to me when I was little. I love winter. C= I’ll have to write a poem about the silence of winter soon, because it has always struck me as incredible how it can be so quiet.

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