Snow and Wistfulness

Snow and Wistfulness

It never snows down here.

Up there, on the slate-sharp hills, almost every day, without qualm. But downhere,
Never!

Never, not even when the demented winds rush down the slopes, like meth addicts on a high;

Not even when the rain congeals all around, like sheets of cold grey gel;

Not even when the old woman with snow-hair and wrinkles like the crags on the face of the hills predicts: “It will snow down here, this time pucca.”

So, in my chilled gray garden with the snowed hills around me, I sit and dream:
Of tiny flecks of snow, like soft candy floss;

Of thin icicles, with old sunlight trapped inside;

Of a spider-web of snow, over the strawberries;

Of pine trees wearing woolly caps of snow;

Of the kids' park in front, under a duvet of mink-snow;

And of that last red rose,
Fossilised in ice!

What's this thing with me and snow?

A longing: old, unrequited?

Perhaps.

It snowed late last night, quietly, stealthily, as I slept.

In the morning, clumps of snow clung to the edge of the road, the edge of the steps, the edge of the flower pots.
Sparse, scraggly.

When touched, it melted. Into nothingness. So easily. So disenchantingly.

Snow is just water.
Only colder.




Picture Credits:
Frozen Love: Rose in Icicle by Dr Swastika Jha, Dhauladhar Snow Ranges by Dr Shailja Karki