Bad Weather

By Katie Chicquette Adams

Six inches last night, the heavy, wet kind.
Every branch coated with puffy white.

It dazzles the eyes, awakens them from the gloom
of yesterday’s steel gray snow-sky, darkening

the day even sooner than usual. The overlapping
branches weave an intricate yet sturdy lace

across the yards. They mesmerize; I cannot resist
acknowledging the beauty, the novelty, the bright

seasonal alternative to curled-up, dry, brown, gray.
But he can. He will scoff if any of us dares to call this

view pretty; he will say he cannot do anything but hate
it, a reminder of what winter really is, of the endless chore

that is relocating the snow to create some approximation
of mobility. I don’t deny the annoyance; I will cuss in a rush

as I shovel past the time I should have left for work.
I will fret as I pump the brakes in icy slush, worry

that I am about to fishtail into yet another dilapidated mini-van.
I will miss the sun, the green, the clear sidewalks for long

walks. And yet, I can see the temporary artistry of branches
bowed toward the earth in wintry prayer. After long stretches

behind the boxy, heavy snowblower, snow-spray whipping
his cheeks, he cannot. It is a cold reminder of how he also sees

me. Who I am now blocks the view of whom he loved then,
and there is no explaining this away. To see me as I am

is to see only the bad weather that swept into our hearts,
and it never looks pretty from any angle, in any light.

---

---