A Winter Confession

Forgive me, Father, for I have said winter’s four-letter word.

I have said it many, many times, day in and day out—and I cannot stop.

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All through this season, and everywhere I go, there are piles of it:

Up and down, to the left of me, to the right of me, it’s always there.

The white stuff in abundance, enough to hydrate a desert and it’s driving me batty.

There are potholes in the driveway and on the road, too.

The icicles have formed their sharp points at the edge of the house and without fail

Lands upon my sorry head (whether it’s covered or not).

Everywhere I see: ice, ice, ice!

It belongs in a tray in the fridge or in a drinking glass

Not upon what was once my very green grass.

Unbelievably, as I speak these words, it is snowing again

In the winter that just won’t quit.

Temperatures dropping, winds a blowing:

I am fast ready to give in to submission.

And I’m quickly turning 50 shades of every hue

Every time I try to deal with it: phew!

It never ends.

Any temperature above zero seems like a heat wave

And I am sorely tempted to invest in flannel and other assorted stocks.

They should’ve given the Nobel to those guys who invented long underwear

And the earmuff: they were the truly hardy souls,

Whether they came from Duluth or not.

It has long since past looking like a Currier and Ives scene

And the charm’s long lost.

And believe me, I’m ready to leave it all behind.

How tired am I of the gloves, the scarves, the boots and the insulated socks

And every time I look about and see some kid in those darn silk basketball shorts

It is all I can do from forming the “silent scream.”

Can’t you understand, Father?

There is only so much I can endure—

And come to think of it, is there any Scripture scholar that can tell me

With any great definitiveness

If Jesus ever threw a snowball or was He acquainted with snow angels?

Eh?

I thought so.

Didn’t mean to put you on the spot, Padre. Just wondering.

Just so you know—

I’m ready to remove any winter-related song from my iPod

And consign it to you know where—

I take you point, Father, but don’t you see what it has done to me?

Penance?

I thought I was living it these many weeks!

Woe is me, for I feel like a meteorological Job waiting for deliverance.

And for penance, yes, Father, I promise to be the exemplary model of patience

The next time I’m behind the wheel and some sucker wants to cut me off

At the pass in order to be the first one home, just because it’s coming down again.

Yes, prayers for me and promise, prayers for you.

I’m finished kneeling now and I’m going out and I’m opening the door

And I’m seeing it all again: Oh, no!

Forgive me, Father, for I have said winter’s four-letter word once again:

SNOW.

 

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