As you all know, I’ve been struggling with the feeling that I’ve poemed everything there is to poem. I’ve felt all the feels, and already poemed them, and there is nothing left to write. Some of it is true, because today I felt, again, like I belong in Siberia. It is cold, and that makes me think fondly of a truly rural life, one based on the work of survival. If I lived in Siberia, my sole jobs to get through winter would be a) work my ass off in spring, summer, and fall in order to have enough beets and other tubers, roots, fruits, and venison to get through winter, b) to ensure that the animals were fed and kept from the deep cold, and c) to snuggle with my HP in my giant stove bed. Seems like good work, to me. Also, I know I wrote a poem early last year about how all I want to do in the winter is snuggle in a stove bed.
I feel like I have probably written the poem I’m about to write at least once this year. It’s about the moon, and the cold, and refraction. It is late, and it is Wednesday, and so here goes:
One hundred days a year seems like a lot, but not to the practicing artist. And not for those of high latitudes, with cold winters and cool summers. One hundred days a year, if conditions permit, if you live in the woods in the true north, you can see the winter halo. The twenty-two degrees halo, made of hexangonal ice prisms and the minimum deviation of light, and inside the ring seems darker by small degrees. Twenty two degrees off the horizon is all it takes to make the arresting refraction, and all illusions of that nature are dependent on ice in the air. Circumzenithal arcs, terribly geometric and iridescent, those happen at least fifty times a year, where the air is clear and freezing. This is what the breast looks like to a babe, all radiant and mystic from above, and we are all small and unaware, looking up.
Okay. The moon is super cool tonight. How many moon poems have I written this year, I wonder? Happy Wednesday, you readers of many poems.