When I moved to California last year, I didn't think it was possible to miss the snow. Of all the natural phenomena, snow is pretty low on my list. Despite those first sparkling flakes, as someone who suffered her share of Midwest winters, I'm here to tell you that picturesque, pretty snow is just the tip of the iceberg (#CouldntResist). Snow is shivering, whipping through your hair, blowing in your eyes. It freezes to the ground and gets muddy, scaly, and sandy — somehow! — the longer it coats the earth. Also, The Sound of Music gets it wrong: there's absolutely nothing favorite-thing-worthy about snow landing on your eyelashes.
Frankly, I like the idea of snow much more than the reality of it, which is why I'm glad for ... poetry, obviously. With poems about snow I can at least imagine that all those cozy images are the real story. Because, let's be honest: snow is more mood than weather. (That's gotta be why it's listed as a scent in goop's first candle). Snow wants to be snuggling, afghan-burrowing, hunkering down, or bundling up for something vigorous and outdoors.
Don't let the downsides of snow blindside you to its goodness. These 11 poems are here to help.
Poet, Decide! I am lonely with questions. What is snow? What isn’t? Do you see how it is for me.
Once with my scarf knotted over my mouth I lumbered into a storm of snow up the long hill and did not know where I was going except to the top of it.
Blow, Wind, blow Upon your pipes of joy; All your sheep the flakes of snow And you their shepherd boy!
A spring snow coincides with plum blossoms. In a month, you will forget, then remember when nine ravens perched in the elm sway in wind.
Winter is good - his Hoar Delights Italic flavor yield - To Intellects inebriate With Summer, or the World -
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
It is the time of rain and snow I spend sleepless nights And watch the frost Frail as your love Gathers in the dawn.
I cannot but remember
When the year grows old—
How she disliked the cold!
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter
I’m bright as an angel, and light as a feather, But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together.
Down here, we’ve come to prefer the raw material Of everyday and this year have kept an eye On it, shriveling but still recognizable-- A sight that disappoints even as it adds A clearing second guess to winter.