[Jim Moonan]

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Thanks for the poem reference. I had not read it before. It's a beautiful poem — not mine, Boris's.

Mine may not really go anywhere. Although I'd argue that that is the intent. The opening line of my poem comes out of a quiet despair I've felt pursuing me of late. The world has come to a frozen place. Nothing seems alive. Nothing moves like it should.

The real stimulus for the poem started early yesterday morning when I saw someone's post on social media of last night's snowfall in upstate New York. I then scrolled a bit further and there was Robert Frost's Dust of Snow poem.

The two combined in my head to become the little poem I wrote. The photo of the upstate NY snowfall had a rather dismal washed out blueish hue to it. All gray skies and snow. It had a defeated look to it. There was a lilac bush that had been bent over to the ground by the thin, heavy blanket of snowfall. The Frost poem was in sharp contrast to that photo. It has an element of serendpity in it. The snow disturbed by the crow had saved the N’s dispirited mood.

Then my thoughts turned to one of my favorite short stories: The Dead by James Joyce. Then I imagined the whole earth covered in a blanket of snow. Put to sleep, dead.

I hope something of what I describe above comes across in the poem. Unlike the despair that has been nagging me, there is hope in the poem.

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[Carl Copeland]

Thanks for the backstory, Jim. I’m quite happy for a poem to convey a mood as yours does and “go nowhere.” I’m always a bit puzzled when a poem is criticized for having no development, though I suppose such criticism may at times be apropos. But you do have some development: from a cozy winter sleep/death to a bone-achy spring awakening/resurrection. That’s interesting, as is the worldwide blizzard. Maybe I should tell you to cheer up, but I’d rather you keep writing your way through it.