A Seasoned Part of the
Country
by Austin Ballard
It’s
a fact in anyone’s book
That
iced roads can swipe an unwary tire
And
direct its path to a ditch
(The
place every driver dreads).
I
have furrowed a disgruntled brow, too,
When
the thick, heavy flakes
Pile
up like bricks on a wall
To
blockade my shoveled driveway once more.
And
yes, even when winter is over,
The
trickling, drippy brown water
May
seep and soak the dead grass,
Forming
flat heaps that linger to the last.
All
this while we stay inside,
With
wet gloves, sick of hot cocoa
And
weary of making snowmen,
Bored,
and longing for the color green.
Such
are the common laments in this town,
And
they are valid.
But
yet my address stays the same, and I imagine the pitiful opposite.
In
other places, to the south or southeast,
—What
a pity—the children know not the color white.
Just
ice in iceboxes, snow on the old T.V. screen,
And
water trickling out as sweat,
With
nothing but sweltering more or less to look forward to.
At
least I, in my chilly basement,
Can
look forward to a change greater than mere temperature:
A
revolving wheel of colors, smells, and pastimes;
Rather
than just dripping with sweat or pool water day in and day out.