Poem - Snow in Montana

  • Snow in Montana


    What Ms. Hutchinson would think of me now, I do not care to know;

    Seated at my ease, sipping coffee from Colombia,

    Attended by a thousand swirling doting motes of snow

    Outside the truck stop window,

    Caught in the beam of a Ford headlight.


    Oh, unhappy dispensation from honest toil!

    To spend a vain and idle wintry day in

    Wanton dalliance with impious books;

    To speak with Lucretius in pagan oracles of the soft

    Fallen snow—of the atoms at the heart of every flake—

    Of the pinnacles and drifts that build up

    Slowly, accumulating like a Puritan's holy scorn

    On pickups and diesel pumps and the soft

    Blushing cheeks of laughing people.


    Ah, the shame of it! Methinks I ought to

    Hide my face, and glower in the darkness

    Of that Casino in the back.