POEMS/ Antarctica in Vermont
Antarctica in Vermont
Minus 12 on a bitter cold morning.
I don my long underwear, wool scarf
and hat, ski pants, down coat,
put on two pairs of mittens and socks
and thick boots with cleats, feeling
as if I am as fortified against the cold
as one of the great explorers –
Admundsen, Scott, or Shackleton,
who dared long miles of wind, ice,
and snow to try to gain the pole,
or as one of the hardy year-round
scientists and support crews who endure
dark months of brutal ice and blizzards
at McMurdo Station, no way to travel
to the outside world from February to October.
I leash the dog. We venture out. She, snug
in her thick coat, doesn’t, I am certain,
feel the cold at all. I, on the other hand,
am frozen. I trudge behind her, wishing
I too had four legs and fur, or could go back
in time to those halcyon days of my youth,
age when the winter cold, its icy teeth,
its bitter bites, just did not matter.
Minus 12 on a bitter cold morning.
I don my long underwear, wool scarf
and hat, ski pants, down coat,
put on two pairs of mittens and socks
and thick boots with cleats, feeling
as if I am as fortified against the cold
as one of the great explorers –
Admundsen, Scott, or Shackleton,
who dared long miles of wind, ice,
and snow to try to gain the pole,
or as one of the hardy year-round
scientists and support crews who endure
dark months of brutal ice and blizzards
at McMurdo Station, no way to travel
to the outside world from February to October.
I leash the dog. We venture out. She, snug
in her thick coat, doesn’t, I am certain,
feel the cold at all. I, on the other hand,
am frozen. I trudge behind her, wishing
I too had four legs and fur, or could go back
in time to those halcyon days of my youth,
age when the winter cold, its icy teeth,
its bitter bites, just did not matter.
