Bipolar Meteorology

Falling snows drift by my window. Too bad it isn't  sticking to the ground. Why is it that in the northeast, where you would imagine the cold would arrive and stay, that we get such a miserable fluctuation in weather.

Two weeks ago I dropped off my daughter and daughter-in-law to go skiing on a crunchy pack of crystalline powder. The only reason that I did not join them was because of the expense. But it was cold; damn cold.

Yesterday, I went out with a sweatshirt, sans hat, and thought about sitting outside for a suntan and a healthy dose of vitamin D3. My backyard was, as E.E. Cummings would have noted, "mud-luscious and puddle wonderful". I thought for a moment that I heard a far and wee whistle.

I fully expected that January and February would be the coldest time of winter here. I hoped so. It's getting frustrating to watch the logs by the wood stove gather dust, look at the mail lady in a tee shirt shoving my mail into the box, and having to pick muddy dirt from the hooves of my daughter's horse.

It's winter! I want it cold, damn it! I want it cold so I can sit by my window and stare out over a dreary white landscape in a melancholy mindset. That's when I do my best writing. Brings out the real poet in me.

Poet. Hmmm. Or perhaps I should take a page from old Mr. Cummings works and envision the coming days of a warm spring. I've written some good stuff at that time of year, too. Brings out the romantic in me. And you know, I am a romance writer.

Maybe I should keep my mouth shut about winter. Instead, I think I will look forward to longer days and overhead sunlight. Soon, I bet, a little lame goat-footed balloon man will whistle far and wee over the lands outside my window.

And just as I write that, I look outside my window at the falling snow. It's now sticking to the ground.