Metropolitan Homesick Blues

Southampton Stories & Other Stuff

THE WEIGHT OF SNOW

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We woke to a Christmas Card scene this morning. Overnight, snow, thick with moisture, fell hard. Its clinging weight bent the branches of trees and practically leveled all the low lying shrubs. It was the kind of snow that snaps the trunk and limbs of trees. Thankfully we were spared.

Our birch tree was the worst hit. Its tall, proud branches submitted to the snow and lowered themselves to the ground. So much so that it looked half its normal height. Nothing was broken. All was bent. Robert Frost’s poem Birches came to mind:

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for so long, they never right themselves:

You may see their truncks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground…

My fear was that he may be right. I did not want our birch to suffer that fate. I must have looked a sight, dancing around our tree in the morning darkness, stable broom in hand, knocking snow off the branches. For my efforts I was showered with dead leaves and wet snow. But, relieved of the weight, our birch reached skyward again. Leaves littered the snow covered lawn. The footprints of my boots trampled them down. Though many remain on the branches, golden against the white. The leaves of birches are always the last to fall.

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Written by metropolitanhomesickblues

December 1, 2008 at 8:13 PM

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