Snow Girl of the San Juans.

Alex Shapiro is at it again on her terrific blog site, NOTES FROM THE KELP. She was returning to her beloved San Juan Island from Seattle yesterday, and the snows of kilimanjaro hit, leaving actual "snow" there on the island. She seems to enjoy the stuff. I am a native Northwesterner, used to hills and dales and valleys and forests, and every damned time the snow hits it rains on my parade. I love to look at it if I do not have to drive in it. Alex wrote on her blog:

It’s not uncommon for islanders to head south for the winter months and join the other snowbirds, even though the season here is very temperate. Most days are in the low to mid forties, dipping into the 30’s at night. There isn’t the bitter cold of the Minnesotan or New York winters that Charles and I grew up enduring. The air here is crisp and fresh and pure and invigorating, and tromping around outside to chop wood or spread birdseed is a joy. This dark-eyed junco is especially pleased that I feel this way. It rarely snows and when it does, the powdery fluff is gone within hours, melted into a memory.

But yesterday as I was headed home from Seattle, it did indeed snow on San Juan Island– and the snow stuck! A couple of very pretty inches that have turned everything in view into a work of art. I’m loving all phases of winter here and can’t imagine why others flee for Arizona, Florida, the Caribbean, Mexico, Hawaii and Central America. Ok, well, I can– but I’m so completely at home in this, that staying here seems like a vacation in and of itself. The weather here is so much better than where I grew up. Is there a word for feeling even more at home than where your original home was?

Then, in her way, she posted a wonderful picture of the bird in the fluff snow, and posted some of her music to illustrate the illustrate, or to illuminate it, or to underscore it. The piece was The White Horse. It was 45 seconds of bliss, part Celtic, part jazz, all Alex. I wrote a little piece of free verse as a response to her music.

SNOWS OF SAN JUAN

The white horse,
wearing
a white blaze,
not completely white,
but nearly,
stood,
on a white day moment,
in the snow,
fetlock deep
in the fluff,
white on white;
and its magnificent tail
swished like a
conductor's baton,
humming in the crisp air,
the equus concerto,
as her pink-blue eyes
saw me
there;

In my white snow suit,
behind my white and green scarf,
neath my silly white and red woolen hat,
with my slender white fingertips
clicking and clicking
the imaginary pic
that would cue
that wonderful trick
of finding
the music;
for it must be
done
to salve my imagination,
to soothe my emotions,
to calm
the euphoria deep
in my chest,
and to provide
the necessary sustenance
for my Muse,
who is always,
it seems
hungry.

Glenn Buttkus 2008

Then I thanked her for her epic poem that I clearly read in my mind as I read her prose. It went something like this:

TWEET TWEET

ONE

It's not uncommon
for islanders
to head south
for the winter months
and join the other
snowbirds;
even though
the season here
is very temperate.

Most days
are in the low
to mid-forties,
dipping
into the thirties
at night.

There isn't
the bitter cold
of the Minnesotan
or New York
winters
that Charles and I
grew up
enduring.

The air here
is crisp and fresh and pure
and invigorating,
and tromping around
outside
to chop wood
or spread birdseed
is a joy.

The dark-eyed Junco
is especially pleased
that I feel
this way.

It rarely snows,
and when it does,
the powdery fluff
is gone
within hours,
melted into a
memory.

TWO

But yesterday
as I was headed Home
from Seattle,
it did indeed
snow
on San Juan Island--
and the snow
stuck!
A couple of pretty inches
that have turned everything
in view,
into a work
of art.

I'm loving
all phases of
winter
here,
and can't imagine
why
others flee
for Arizona, Florida, the Caribbean,
Mexico, Hawaii, and Central Amerca.

Ok,
well,
I can--
but I'm so completely
at Home
in this,
that staying here
seems
like a vacation
in and of
itself.

The weather here
is so much
better
that where
I grew up.
Is there a word
for feeling
even more at Home
than where
your original home
was?

Alex Shapiro January 2008


There probably is such a word, dear lady, but it is spoken only by the wind in whispers, rattling your warm windows late at night, interupting your dreams, becoming your dreams, wrapping you like silk, sitting, lying quietly, watching you sleep, hoping you will wake soon and come out and play.

Glenn Buttkus