File:The Blizzard by Phillis Levin (16551464321).jpg

This little village of ice fishing houses is on the Androscoggin River. A train bridge is in the distance and used by the Downeaster. I heard this poem read this morning by Garrison Keillor on his daily The Writer's Almanac show. The much ballyhooed blizzard that was due to arrive this past weekend did not. I guess it blew out to the Gulf of Maine. The photo is just an excuse for the poem.

The Blizzard

by Phillis Levin

Now that the worst is over, they predict Something messy and difficult, though not Life-threatening. Clearly we needed

To stock up on water and candles, making Tureens of soup and things that keep When electricity fails and phone lines fall.

Igloos rise on air conditioners, gargoyles Fly and icicles shatter. Frozen runways, Lines in markets, and paralyzed avenues

Verify every fear. But there is warmth In this sudden desire to sleep, To surrender to our common condition

With joy, watching hours of news Devoted to weather. People finally stop To talk to each other—the neighbors

We didn’t know were always here. Today they are ready for business, Armed with a new vocabulary,

Casting their saga in phrases as severe As last night’s snow: damage assessment, Evacuation, emergency management,

The shift of the wind matters again, And we are so simple, so happy to hear The scrape of a shovel next door.