The first blizzard–2009
A stream of consciousness

Four deer in the backyard–
blanketed with snow–
the wind blows hard and whitens
the air– thick with flakes,
my breath congeals before me–
the vistas spread their forked fingers
between the bare trees the foliage has rotted
and the grass has shriveled to retreat
into the cold cracks that split the earth
the sky pours its abundance-
the four deer shiver, heads bent,
their mouths root for the vegetation
deep down under– in hibernation,
the provender hides,
and a child asks in wide wonder,
“O poor things, will they die?”

O poor things on the park benches
under the bridges, bedraggled,
bones like ice, eyes frosted,
fingers blue, then black,
their blood rivers jammed with floes,
picked up by ambulances–
emergencies– ignored for a long time–
off stage–alone–now a team to their rescue,
the process of rewarming,
a ritual orchestrated by doctors
weary, from years of habit
the automatons spit the orders– to save lives.

O poor things– some– brought back,
no permission asked
whether or not revival is goal desired,
spruced and propped up, days later,
fed and referred to social workers
whose leaden faces betray no emotions
as they suggest shelters in unfamiliar places–
cozy beds, lamps to read by,
clean clothes, food to stick to one’s bones,
what more could one ask for?
Bibles and Bible lessons
available free for souls gone awry.

They shiver, heads bent, in their hospital beds,
their mouths root for known vegetation,
deep down under the bridges,
near the park benches, in the open,
where the vistas spread like forked fingers,
and the territories have been carved out–
among the marginalized it is suicide
to be gone too long from spaces claimed
and boundaries demarcated,
to shelters not claimable as one’s own.

“Bind their wounds,
clasp their hands.”
the spirit of the season,
drives the guilty, to hustle the nomads,
into a lock and step march with the rest–
by roaring fires to recline– roasting chestnuts,
nostalgic for Christmases come and gone.

But uprooted–
from where the wind blows hard,
and whitens the air, thick with flakes–
brought into enclosures,
for their afflictions treated,
“O poor things, will they die?”
A child asks in wide wonder.

Usha Nellore
Marry Christmas and a great new year Brew–live long and prosper.