Buried Alive and Thinking of Whitman

Yes, another drawing. I was hoping to convey in the clearest possible terms what my world is like at the moment. My world is buried. I am buried.

Snow.

Ice.

Work.

Laundry.

Yet in an effort at catching a wee oasis (and to escape the fearsome-ness of my cabin-fevered children), I left my warm abode (that thankfully had power restored after only a few hours) and stood out on my front porch. In my socks.

I listened to the sleet and ice ping against the ground. I drew in a cold breath that made my lungs ache, and exhaled in a white cloud. The cold damp of the porch started to seep through my socks to my feet.

I looked over at my favorite lilac bush at the porch corner bent beneath the weight of winter. The lilacs that I myself transplanted without managing to kill them (a feat of which I am exceedingly proud). A sheen of ice cracked and popped as the bush bowed still lower. I walked over, felt the sleet hit my face as I snapped a picture with my phone. What a beautiful thing winter can be.

Then I closed my eyes. I drew in another breath and imagined I could smell the lilacs. It brought to mind some lines of a Whitman poem:

In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash’d palings,

Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,

With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the dooryard,

With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

A sprig with its flower I break.

Unable to ignore my achingly cold feet, I went back inside, dreaming of Spring and lilacs in bloom and laundry that will someday be done.