Four yards of snow in Newfoundland,
and we're caught short with paltry weather.
A winter of soup stock, sickly grey.
A thin man's weather and its castoff squalls.
A wobble in the barometric pressure.
People, housebound for months,
are eating their shoes and pets,
while all we have is a hand-me-down snow,
some reticent winds, shy and self-absorbed,
a meagre detriment without means or measure.
A no-man's-land snow of the seventh temperament,
shaken out like salt or Charlemagne's asbestos linen.
Snow for grandmothers who coo over colicky infants.
Our snow is laughable and deserves such ridicule
as sturdy northern folk can aptly muster.
Who calls this a storm? This slight impediment.
This Christmas present from a foreign aunt,
lacking any insight into circumstance.
Snow that falls at night, embarrassed of itself,
when we'd petitioned plenty.
A snowfall resembling a stoic's laughter.
The briefest humour, and then it passes.
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The Lightest Powdering
by Bruce McRae
Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with poems published in hundreds of magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. The winner of the 2020 Libretto prize and author of four poetry collections and seven chapbooks, his poems have been performed and broadcast globally.
