The snow falls endlessly now,
each flake a promissory note
drawn against spring’s distant account.
We watch it gather at our doors,
pile high against the windows
where our grandparents once planted gardens.
Time moves differently in this season—
stretched thin like month-end budgets,
brittle as the icicles that fence us in.
Each morning, the plows come earlier,
scraping tomorrow’s path clean
for wheels that must keep turning.
The children no longer build snowmen.
Their mittened hands are too busy
helping their parents clear driveways
before the next shift begins.
The snow fort of their imagination
foreclosed by practical concerns.
Remember when winter meant rest?
When fields lay fallow beneath white blankets,
and people gathered close, sharing warmth?
Now the fluorescent lights never dim,
and the night shift trudges on
through drifts of overtime.
The old maple gave up last week,
its branches finally surrendering
beneath accumulated weight.
We’ll miss its shade come summer,
if summer ever comes. But who has time
to plant new trees these days?
They say this is the new normal—
perpetual winter, perpetual motion,
perpetual payments on dreams
frozen in time like the pond
where we used to skate, now fenced off,
marked “Private Property: No Trespassing.”
In the break room, someone’s posted
a calendar showing tropical beaches,
palm trees swaying in warm breezes.
But we’ve learned not to look too long;
such thoughts melt productivity
like salt on ice.
The weatherman speaks of systems,
pressure zones and precipitation,
charts and graphs trending ever downward.
We nod as if we understand
why the thaw never comes,
why our bones stay cold.
Tonight, I’ll shovel out my car again,
sweep away the evidence of pause,
of nature’s attempt at stillness.
The engine must stay warm,
ready for tomorrow’s cold start—
another day of necessary motion.
And still the snow falls,
each flake a tiny IOU
from a future that keeps
promising spring,
but only delivers
more winter.