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snow

Temporary Beautiful

(x = space)

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Temporary Beautiful

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I don’t know

We walk in snow today

If we want to

It fell when nighttime degrees

Encountered would-be rain

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There is wind

To keep it down

For a while

Though the temperatures

Won’t keep it long

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Without worry,

We can hear the muffled sounds

Or spring and morning

Watch the white

Most of which will disappear

Before it’s trodden

Everywhere

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No slush

No pushing it

This way or that

Simply have it

Behold the art

That won’t outlast the Grecian urn

Except by hours

Give credit to

The artist of the

Temporary beautiful

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C L Couch

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“The Artist of the Beautiful” is a short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne.  “Ode to a Grecian Urn” is a poem by John Keats.

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Photo by Nadiia Ploshchenko on Unsplash

snowfall January 13th 2021

Ukraine

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Overnight

(x = space)

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Overnight

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We got snowed on

Last night

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Not much

Enough to cover everything

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The new look

Will not last

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People have to travel roads

To get to work

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And everything

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C L Couch

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Photo by Nathan Wolfe on Unsplash

“Faceless Snowman”

Bend, United States

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On the First Day

(x = space)

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On the First Day

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It’s Sunday

The day Al Roker

Announces in

An echo chamber

I’m not sure why

Maybe his mother

Told him to

Maybe because

It’s game day

I’ll have church

In a little while

Service and Sunday

School in a virtual

(and, yes,

hopefully virtuous)

Way

And the day will continue

We’re expecting snow

In the afternoon,

Over night into

Monday morning,

Which could make

The commute

A mess

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C L Couch

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Photo by alexey turenkov on Unsplash

Published 1h ago

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Easy Snow

(x = space)

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Easy Snow

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I might have gotten

In my car, not looking

At three inches’

Newfallen snow

Then got out again

Once I knew the source

Of the sudden darkness

(were it day)

These spits of snow

Have been the normal

For a while

Late winter?

Early spring?

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The groundhog is famous for

Inaccuracy,

Though the fairs are fun

In Punxsutawney

And who trusts a pampered

Creature to tell the weather,

Anyway?

We’d do better to

Look at the sides of wild trees

For direction

And the thickness of the fur

On the denizens

Therein

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C L Couch

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Photo by Babette Landmesser on Unsplash

Sun shines through winter trees on beautiful snowy ground.

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Snow Overnight

(x = space)

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Snow Overnight

(the forecast)

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Snow in the dark

Except where under

Artificial lights,

Maybe like renegades

Outside the windows

Of our homes

Or business locales

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Over the runway

Through trees

Sleeping gardens

Flying around steeples

It’s there

It might go well

To turn off the lights

Go outside

I have to recommend

In numbers

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But let them strike our flesh

Faces,

Wrists between our gloves

And sleeves

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Small hits, the kind that

Most of us can take

With the cold

In thirties Fahrenheit,

Knowing that heat awaits

Inside

After the dance

Or anything to learn

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C L Couch

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Photo by Robert Katzki on Unsplash

Stützerbach, Deutschland

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Isn’t It Romantic

(x = space)

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Isn’t It Romantic

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Moving shadows write the oldest magic word.

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Isn’t it romantic

All the snow

Pristine on tops of cars

That shouldn’t have to

Move just yet

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Sidewalks

Half undone

While scraping shovels

Focused machines

Work on the rest

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And isn’t it delightful

A snow day

Begging us to stop

Like toys

Wind up to unwind

For an hour

Of contemplation

Reading something new

Or press

Against a favorite

Page or person

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There are those

Addressing danger

They are blessed

And we should help them

After

The stolen hour is done

When we return

To epiphany

Of ordinary time

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C L Couch

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“Isn’t It Romantic”

Richard Rogers, Lorenz Hart

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Photo by Maddy Baker on Unsplash

Northville, United States

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Further In

(x = space)

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Further In

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It’s a day that should own

A fireplace

The snow will be falling sometime

Outside is in the twenties

And the teens

Inside there could be fuel

A sofa or a chair

An ottoman

Coasters

Light snow first

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Something of a storm later on

The forecasters are not sure

How much

It will finally settle on the coast

And move up

New York, Boston,

Maine and then on out

To sea

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Maybe to an island,

Breathe on toward another shore

That I could name

An island of my mothers

I have not been blessed

To see

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C L Couch

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Photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash

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Snow Living

(x = space)

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Snow Living

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The snow fell several times

in the night.

Now the sun is out on

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ground that is too white,

under blue that is

relief

for clouds innocuous.

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Trucks with blades

but already parts of roads

are closed

because of accidents,

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no doubt caused

by those who think

the weather makes no

difference.

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Stay inside if you can—

advice cast

through

the air and over wires. Yet

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we know how to

live inside,

thanks to

our mutual situation.

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Turn away, perhaps,

from uncurtained

windows.  At least wait

‘til dusk.

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Look inside (instead) to

think about

holidays, vaccines.

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C L Couch

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Photo by Bogdan Cheșa on Unsplash

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2 poems about the snow

2 poems about the snow that’s on its way

(and now is falling)

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Happy Weather People

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The sky is full

Nothing surprising there

It should be snowing soon

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I don’t like where

The car is parked,

Though I suppose anywhere

Along the street

It’s going to be plowed against

When the trucks with the

Big blades go by

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Records will be broken,

So they say;

The forecasters actually are

Excited on the TV screen

With big maps projected behind

Them—well, sure things

Probably don’t

Come their way so often,

Lucky them

For now

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New Testament

(December, MidAtlantic USA)

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Yes, it’s cold

For now, I’m not worried

Should I lose the electricity,

I might die

But I’m inside

Not everyone gets to be

And some are inside hospitals

Too many, in fact

Because the disease

Is moving toward a spike, again

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There is a better message

Still to be sworn in

And better methods in the offing

We’ll all get our shots,

Eventually

And deal with side effects

The chart will have point

And then slide down

The other side

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At least, that’s the plan

Many people

Even when silenced

Or at least shouted down

Have worked on this

And we need

To trust their skill,

Attested by the numbers

Going down

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And we can say

This was

Our generation’s 1918 influenza

To count

To bury

And to weep

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C L Couch

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Photo by Andrew Ridley on Unsplash

Cairngorms National Park, Ballater, United Kingdom

National Park, Ballater, United Kingdom

Pile of Leaves

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