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PATTERNING

Winter snow blowing
    Softly,
    At liberty,
     Dreamily
Picks out delicate patterns
  Of grayed thistledown
               Falling feather-light;

I press my nose
    Happily,
     Awe-fully,
      Wonderingly
            Against the bitter glass.
Though I stand secure
  In morning room,
    Another "me" flies out of doors
        To fantasize beyond the pane.

Nature's patterning
    In snow sets free
    That new and younger "me";
    Fulfills joys known pre-puberty:
Smiling, bright experience
  Re-opens my youth's magic eye;
        Momentarily the vision chases
  All "adultness" out of me.
Snowflakes affect me
    With a pondering mood
        For thought-flickerings of delight.

I would float out in the gray;
    Going ever on and on
    Hither and yon,
    Soft as thistledown,
Like the angel-puff wings
          Of silent, drifting snow.
I want to be drawn
    To dreams gone,
    Understanding to spawn,
Till the graying sky
  Is all a part of me.
     And I see!
     (And feel the flow
       Of snow's
            Fantasy grace
  Tugging at my mind's shield
     Of vulnerability.)

Yet, too grown up am I.
Reality intrudes:
    For winter chill
     Has no lasting thrill;
     Alas, cold's knell
O'ertakes the blesy wonder
  Of waking to discover
        Morn's hush holiness.
And my adult dislike
  Of this cold spell
   Leads me (as it will!),
   Whisper-still,
To scuttle off to take advantage
         Of my warm bed-ability.

Watching from within the glass
     Brings no answer's faun
     Of reverencing a new dawn --
     But only one chilly yawn.
Brave new world of patterning
(Middle age!) destroys my will,
            The keeping still
            Inside thought's spell
Is lost as coldness
    Pushes romance
       Into chilled inevitability.

I turn, going back to cover.
    There's no upswinging
     Of philosophy bringing
        Comfort, nor singing
Of catch-worthy mental mot.
I felt that creeping from bed
  To watch sweet snow falling
    Would be engulfment in the wave
       Of heaven's shore;
New birth, new gift, new sight.
Yet crawling back abed
  On winter morn is grown up's
      Most conscious luxury.
Change of plan, lessened resolve:
  Is that how my life
        Henceforth is to be?
Sad, but when body feels winter,
    Cold, there's only so much
            Mind-managability.

Child-within-adult viewing new winter snow,
Peculiar show!
  Though my vision yearns for winterdown,
     I'm content to settle down.  
      Warm blankets are the patterning
          Of best-believability.

Insistantly-falling snow:
    Chance-glimpsed for a second's sight;
      Now safe and warm, I may delight
    In remembrance of flakes' fancy flight.
(An adult view of "liveability".)
(c) 1991 by Marilee Miller