Flash in the Pan, Stitch in the Air

It’s a dun land, these days, the tints
Of gold and red and bronze all gone
To shawl the ground in beige and grey,
The bright white ice a week off yet.

It’s a dull grace, these days like lace,
Flash in the pan, stitch in the air,
The sun a squib, the earth just dirt.
I like it this way. It won’t stay,

But when I was a boy it did,
It seemed like a third of the year
Was grey—bare trees, bare ground, dank air.
I used to pray for snow. I prayed

And I prayed. I dreamed of a storm
That did not stop. I don’t why
I thought it would be good to be
Caught and lost. But I did. I did.

I did not get my wish, but once
Or twice, far from that grey child’s land,
I got snowed in so bad I could
Have died, so bad I did get scared.

That cured me. Sort of. I still dream
Of snow that does not, will not stop,
That hides it all so I can sleep.
I still take a weird joy in storms

I know do not bode well for me.
But I’ve changed, a bit. In warm lands,
I’ve come to love these few dun weeks
High in the hills, glass skies, cliff sands.