Poetry by Ruth Zwald
and suddenly you are back in your grandmother’s tiny kitchen / she warms
fresh milk / stirring in sugar and cocoa powder / until it is smooth and rich
this kind of snow that travels through time
and then remembering snow where your sled won’t fly / too heavy / your
fingers frostbitten / it hurts so much as you begin to thaw out by the radiator
I know you know this kind of snow when life is cold and painful and stuck
and there is magic snow / just before Christmas kind of snow / when the moon
reflects the crystals / you want to watch all night to glimpse what might be
this kind of snow in the dark where anything is possible
and there’s the “I’m so glad I don’t have to drive anywhere” snow / where you
can spend a day in front of the fire / read a novel about other people’s lives
this kind of snow celebrates the quiet of your own life
and there are whole winters of sorrowful snow / layered and buried in the still /
whole winters of the digging out through memories / shovel by shovelful
this kind of snow that gifts you with time to wander
On her farm in West Michigan, Ruth Zwald lives close to the earth through her lifestyle and spiritual practices. Upon retirement, she started to unearth words. Winner of the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press in 2024 for her chapbook, Bones And Breath, and recently published in Farmer-ish Journal and The Guided Weathervane.
