



Here is a poem I wrote back in 1979, in Emmitsburg, the last time we had a snow event this size:
Blizzard
The deaf snow speaks in sign like a prophet.
His fingers remark the landscape swiftly, stolidly.
They say
This time I am serious.
He cups his thick hand on the birdsnest,
levels the driveways,
leans on the trees,
pulls the sky down to the earth -
nebulae swirl by the second story windows.
This time I am serious.
This time you will hear me.