Drive south down I-95 in the new year, and you’ll join a fleet of cars with license plates from New York, Massachusetts, and Canada. These are the “snow birds,” off to exchange winter’s snow and frigid temperatures for the sunshine and balmy breezes of Miami and Key West. Drive north during this same season, and you’ll see few travelers with Florida plates heading north to revel in the Arctic climate.
Many people take this dim view of winter. Spring is that long-awaited season when the earth unlocks and there’s not a snowplow to be found. Summer brings the months of leisure, when school children have put aside their books and play backyard games while Dad fusses with the grill and Mom fusses at him. Fall sports a coat of many colors, returns us to more stringent schedules and a busier pace, and ends with a day of thanksgiving for life’s blessings.
Hearth and Home
For many of us, just reading Sitwell’s brief compendium of pleasures brings back our own “time for comfort,” when we faced a winter storm in our home or apartment with plenty of heat, a well-stocked pantry, a special drink, and a good book or friends and family at hand.
And, for the winter fireside meet, Between the andirons’ straddling feet, The mug of cider simmered slow, The apples sputtered in a row, And, close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October’s wood.
Though Whittier writes of a blinding storm, even a modest snowfall can muffle the noise of the world.Stillness
I have lived much of my life in Western North Carolina and parts of Virginia. In these places, which lack the snow removal equipment of many other states, even a few inches of snow bring the world to an abrupt and pleasant halt. Other than a few adventurous owners of vehicles with four-wheel drive, no one ventures onto the roads. And until the children rouse themselves from sleep and head out to make snowmen or find some hill for sledding, the world is as quiet as you’ll ever hear it in these parts.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
And the lullaby rhythm and diction of the last stanza enhance this sensation of peace and quiet:The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
During my online explorations of winter verse and tranquility, an unfamiliar poem by an unfamiliar poet, Ruth Velenski, snared my attention. The first two stanzas of “The Silence of the Snow” encapsulate my own experience of waking to a new snowfall and feeling the lovely stillness it brings:The night sky is a dull grey white. An opaque dust sheet floats so light Upon the roofs and lamps and cars. It settles so softly like falling stars.
It sneaks in crevices and onto window sills. Piles up in soft layers over roads and hills, Weighs down branches, envelopes bark, Skips and flutters across the depth of dark.
A Beauty Clean and Pure
In Western North Carolina, the Smoky Mountains in the summer ride the landscape like enormous green waves, while in the fall they are blanketed by vibrant red-and-gold quilts. Stripped of their foliage by late autumn’s cold temperatures, however, these mountains become a barebones extravaganza of nooks and crannies, crevices, and naked stone, displaying a beauty all their own, particularly when crested by frost or snow.
It sifts from Leaden Sieves – It powders all the Wood. It fills with Alabaster Wool The Wrinkles of the Road –
It makes an Even Face Of Mountain, and of Plain – Unbroken Forehead from the East Unto the East again –
In “Winter’s Beauty,” W.H. Davies (1871–1940) of the United Kingdom begins his poem by briefly describing the joys provided by spring, summer, and fall; he then shifts to an appreciation of winter, ending his verse with this word painting of the season:Then welcome, winter, with thy power To make this tree a big white flower; To make this tree a lovely sight, With fifty brown arms draped in white, While thousands of small fingers show In soft white gloves of purest snow.
The last two lines beautifully capture those hours before the sun melts away those soft white gloves.Stopping by Sofa on a Snowy Evening
As I observed earlier, more than the other seasons, our feelings about winter sharply divide us into two camps. Some relish the pleasures brought by stiff winds and cold temperatures, while others (perhaps the majority) abhor the iron grip of winter’s handshake. The former often enter the house red-cheeked, bright-eyed, and clapping their hands together, while the latter return from work or errands hunched over in coats, scarves, and caps, looking as if they’d just stepped in from the January wastes of Siberia.Yet beauty is in the eye of the beholder, not in the temperature of the skin. Those readers who delve into winter poetry will discover that some of these poets contemplated the frozen landscape from the window of a warm kitchen or den. Clearly, we can appreciate winter’s allure without contracting pneumonia or even a case of the shivers.
Poetry—good poetry—allows us to experience people, places, and things through the senses of another. The poets allow us to see the world through a different pair of eyes. And so it is with their verses of winter. Their imagery, their metaphors, and their word paintings open up the landscape for us and broaden our horizons.
So, while the winds howl and the snow falls, snuggle up in a blanket, pour yourself a mug of Whittier’s cider, and enjoy some winter verses.