Poem from the vault

[luna_virgo]

Hibernation

Snow in Alabama is a rare gift,
a brief dazzling holiday
from winter's brown pall.
Work stops when the roads close
and children run out to play
in the powder before it melts.
You would think the world was ending
if you stepped into a supermarket
and witnessed the mad grab
for bread, milk, and beer.
We have no snow plows down here,
no chains on our tires.
Yankees find this amusing.
My friend in Iceland laughed
at me when I told him
of our biennial blizzards, but
when I asked him about his summers,
it was my turn to scoff.
Try 98 degrees in the shade, my friend,
when the air has the consistency
of soup, and then tell me
how soft we are.
Sit in a dark basement
and listen as a tornado
rips your neighbor's roof away.
Down here, we rather enjoy
resting in snow for a day.


(written 12/14/97, but very fitting this week)