A new poem by Jill Parshley Cardillo, titled "Dear Winter of 2014" Copywright March 27, 2014

"Dear Winter of 2014"
          By Jill Parshley Cardillo
          Copyright March 27, 2014

I think
we are all ready here on the East Coast shores of America
to bid you farewell,
dear Winter...
but first I'd like to say
thank you for your visit.
Thank you for shedding each unique flake of yours
this past season
on the eyelashes of the young
who,
for their first time,
felt what it was like
to make angels in the snow.
Babies grasped your brightly chiseled ivory
until it melted within their little fingers,
and as their eyes lit up, parents fell deeper in love with that innocent gaze.
Toddlers giggled while falling on piles of you,
couples fell in love during snowball fights,
neighbors learned peace shoveling each other's sidewalks,
strangers paid it forward changing each others flat tires
along frozen broken roads.
Beyond those warmer moments though,
I am,
we are,
well aware of a reality still
which exists beyond each snowfall...
far from our world of poetry...
where during your visit Winter,
blood drops fell
on your snow
from a drunk frat boy in New Jersey
who was left behind a house breathless,
on an icy covered backyard...
and a beloved superstar hibernated on heroin
slipping away into eternity as your cold winds banged on the panes of his hefty loft in Manhattan.
Gangs cracked windows
for iPods in cars
in exchange for
winter coats
off the back of a truck.
Today I choose to stare
beyond this sadness
of the Winter of 2014,
after all,
in poetry
more can be seen
than the naked eye.
Thank you Winter
for bringing out
the best
in some of us.
Every little bit
does count.
There were workers among workers
whose blood, sweat & tears
won them waves
of accolades,
and those
who humbly surrendered serving soup in homeless shelters,
where vulnerable blankets were free,
employees paving potholes,
delivering mail,
and
delivering babies during a frigid highway jam.
There was true camaraderie that only the school's half filled lunchroom,
or
a food co-op
or
the making of a snowman could bring.
Thank you Winter for your crisp fresh air
and for the mountaintop freeze that will soon melt away to give us a
warm
beautiful
breeze,
waterfalls in the
late spring,
and
flowing whitewater rafting memories to make this summer,
and soldiers returning from war
to families waving flags,
brimming with hugs.
Cold pipes cracked,
trains derailed,
gas lines leaked
and buildings and bodies went down in East Harlem,
but across our
whole town
we were one,
even though
it felt like ten below
we let the love
flow.
Snow,
thank you for sleeping over our fields
protecting them from the bitter freeze
so warm soil can breed our fruits and vegetables for harvest this Fall.
And Snow
thank you
for paving pathways
in our
Winter Olympics
And
Paralympics
inspiring those who were once dreamers
to bare metals,
now as champions,
on mountain slopes
and rinks in Sochi.
90 years ago,
while your snow fell in the 1920's,
only men were allowed the honor
to compete in a ski jump,
yet a woman had a vision that someday she would too,
and this Winter that dormant dream came true.
Despite cheers Winter,
there were fears
in which we cried
praying for
Sandy survivors
still without homes,
and temporary homes burning down,
and for the stray cats crying in my back alley in Queens
(one of which we saved)
and
tears for the heating bills of elderly homeowners.
I can dive deep in sorrow
for the accidents,
lost wages,
parents turning on toaster ovens and blow-dryers to keep their children warm,
and there's always our luxury problems...
the dreadful feelings of getting out of bed
not knowing where our fluffy slippers are...
all the while,
polar ice caps are melting from global warming
and there's little cubs with no ground to sleep on,
and there's spared lives on temple and church steps,
and a baby left in a stroller in a park in the Bronx,
and bodies in boxes on the Bowery on the lower east side
("LES" the hipsters call it now)
in New York City.
But today,
I will not dread all of this
it is
what it is.
This week
there were tiny flakes by our side,
once again.
Today I choose not to grunt
when bending over to tie & untie my boots if and when they reveal wet socks,
nope,
I will not.
I did sun salutations in yoga
while snow fell on the fogged up windows.
The light in me, bows to the light in you Winter.
I will love you.
Because one day I will no longer be living this human experience,
nor will you reader,
and somewhere out there someone has never
seen,
smelled
or touched snow,
nor ever had snowflakes fall upon their tongues and lips.
In Nevada and Africa there are draughts,
so while most beg this snow to leave us,
I wish we can mail the melting snow to them,
and right now as we scurry towards televisions
and I-pads
to see the forecast,
at this very moment there are 2 dutiful eagles alternating incubation amid
breaking snow covered branches in preparation to raise their young.
And this Winter
an asteroid 3 times the size of a football field
and 27 million miles away flew past our cold surface of Earth
(this is true as pictured on our satellites).
Somewhere during our complaints
looking for parking
amidst snow,
is a child crying in
Syria,
Crimea,
and in the Ukraine
looking for their parents,
and somewhere while we screech of the 3 inches or more possibly to come
as we put back the flip flops we took out on a warm day last week,
families are counting remains from the list
on a lost Malaysian flight,
there is a search for life
under a Washington mudslide
and
carbon dioxide has born a diamond in the heat under the rocks
100 miles
below
this snow.
That's what matters-
that life goes on,
that you, Snow, will still fall despite everything,
teaching me
once again to get up,
with all of the changing of the seasons,
to believe
that the sparrows will soon chirp again
and that we can
rise above another storm,
rise above another attack
rise above most everything,
when looking at it in its most true perspective,
and risk
unconditional compassion
to see beyond
our petty complaints.
Winter,
I am grateful for your challenges and our
lessons learned.
We will survive you, and so will the generations to follow,
as always,
despite everything.


[Thank you for reading "Dear Winter of 2014"
  By Jill Parshley Cardillo, Copyright March 27, 2014]