Jim Murray

9 months ago · 1 min. reading time · visibility 0 ·

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The Great White Drifts Of Winter

The Great White Drifts Of WinterThe snow is starting to fall

But it’s still a bit warm for it to stick

I stare out the window

And watch those little

Demon snowflakes dancing

Down and down

And my mind opens up

And memories start to leak out

Slowly as through a pinprick

In a bicycle tube

And there is snow

There is always snow

The town where I was born

Was famous for its winters

It’s two foot snowfalls

Way before anyone called it Lake Effect

It would blow and drift

And make amazing shapes

In the local landscape

Like waves of a choppy sea

Frozen in time

And we would bundle up

And attack those drifts

Intrepid Snow Surfers

In bulky winter coats, toques

And ski pants jammed into

rubber boots over three pairs of socks

We would spend hours

In those windswept white dunes

Shooting imaginary bullets at each other

Dying dramatically over and over again

We were young and invincible back then

Pint sized warriors

of our own Imaginary armies

And then we would trudge home,

Soaked to the bone

For hot chocolate and home made

Peanut butter cookies

And there we would sit and stare

Out the window

As the moon, barely visible

Flickered through the clouds

And the next gypsy squall

Wandered in off the lake

And we would dream of

New battles in the

Great White Drifts Of Winter

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Jim Murray

Jim Murray

9 months ago #3

Thanks Jerry. All the best in 21

Jerry Fletcher

Jerry Fletcher

9 months ago #2

Jim, Happy New Year ! Those were the days. that kind of mounds of snow were not part of my growing up but rather as a young man in Minneapolis. My Ex used to describe spring as, "An archeological dig turning up treasures lost in the drifts of winter." Out here in Portland if i want to see snow I can drive up to Mt. Hood but I'd rather stay down her in the rain these days. And so it goes

Ken Boddie

Ken Boddie

9 months ago #1

Invokes memories, Jim of my early years in Scotland and skiing in the Cairngorms. I miss the romance and imagery of still and settled blankets of snow, but not the howling winds, bitter cold, thawing off the ice in my beard, and the sloppy seeping wet slush that comes as the snow melts. Brrrrrrrrh. Here’s wishing you Season’s Greetings and a neighbouring former united set of states free of he who would be king.

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