Frosty

I used this day to recuperate from the previous four days of considerable activity. Considerable for me, anyway: Two markets, then two days spent on the eastern shore listening to trial testimony from a parade of witnesses who couldn’t really remember much of anything. Or—if they did—they weren’t letting on. At least there was the ham and cheese sandwich—grilled—that made the trip worthwhile. But I needn’t go into that again.

Two years ago at Christmas I drove cross-country, taking a route through some of the poorest areas of Kentucky and West Virginia. Outside the grim mountain homes, mostly trailers parked haphazardly in hollows and next to streams, were brightly lit ornaments of the season: Reindeer with sleds, Santa Claus, lights strung here and there, and—of course—Frosty the Snowman. I was struck by how the spirit of the season was irrepressible, couldn’t be stamped out. There was still hope.

Frosty

Jagged winter
At the forest edge
Cold coal water
Down from the mines

Frosty’s out front
With his plastic pipe
Rusted trailer
Down by the pines

Leaves are unsnowed
Outside the door
Brittle Christmas
Dark on the ground

Mountain rusher
Through picture ice
Crackling winter
The only sound

Tar paper, Tyvek
Silver and blue
Inside stirrings
Slippers and robe

Joy is contained
Steps are subdued
Night’s barely day
The house is still cold

Get up, Christmas
Smoke from the stack
Bright boxes await
The day’s first light

Kids are up now
Peering outside
Frosty’s lit up
With his plastic pipe.