Moments in a Blizzard

Windswept sky designs landmark,

the world is being blanketed by that force

greater than our own,

a magical parade of Nature’s wrath,

in the simplest manner of beauty.

 

Oh her strength apparent

inside the wonder of it all,

the winter storm,

a blizzard upon our discontent,

perhaps we might fly away.

 

Lost inside this forever cycle

our lives are equally drawn

by a static probability

of scant survival in the throes

of a woeful condition.

 

Step inside the winds,

that bury this frozen memory,

covering up our sorrows

so there might be a new desire,

a passion to understand.

 

A realization,

recognizing there is an after-life

to the sparkle – once

no longer remains

inside a youthful dream.

 

There inside the wealth of our

humanity

exists a welcome change,

that ever resilient testimony,

suggests we are all ready,

 

already walking again,

this might provocative winds allow.

 


© Thom Amundsen 1/2020

While Digging

With a mental spade in hand,

I broke ground in a volatile land.

 

It is the sort of tale we often forget,

when suddenly life simply won’t relent.

 

I crossed over into a forgotten meadow,

only to find I’d still carried a shadow.

 

There is a reality in knowing the right word

to help move beyond what we might think absurd.

 

It is a choice,

to dig.

 

While the atmosphere around us seems trite,

there is a powerful settling in dirt contrite.

 

Seems the space may no longer feel quite clean,

once the reality of our lives become serene.

 

Oh stop again,

for the dig.

 

Seems the further inside the realm of disdain,

less easily is the worker’s ability to complain.

 

Seams in the environmental cause will display

while every last item of loss has fallen his way.

 

Though the earth has a forever sort of fallen ground

gives credence to the prison in which we are bound.

 

We cannot ever escape the tone of the suddenly frail,

its competency so built upon retelling a scorching tale.

 

Instead we dig, we do try to compel a story,

written by ourselves to discover just what glory

 

lies in the dig,

where uncovered,

 

we fall victim to knowing time is a circle, a place

whereby all of our insecurities likely keep pace,

 

while digging,

in search of a likely capsule.

 

The ground itself in however it may swell,

always uneven, one might never retell.