A poem about snow which you don't have here.
But where I come from we got lots of it.
In fact, our snow becomes a political thing where I live.
You may have heard of our mayor, Jane Byrne.
She gets a lot of publicity because she's the only woman
mayor of a large city.
And the main reason she was elected
is because the previous mayor did such a poor--
such a poor job with snow removal the year
that we had the 27 inch snow.
People couldn't get their cars through the streets
where they were--
the park cars were enclosed in igloos.
That didn't go over very well with the Chicagoans.
This poem is called Not Only the Eskimos.
Eskimos are said to have 26, some people
say more words, for snow.
We have only one noun but as many different kinds.
The grainy snow of the Puritans and snow of soft fat flakes.
Guerrilla snow which comes in the night
and changes the world by morning.
Rabbinical snow, a permanent skullcap
on the highest mountains.
Snow that blows in like the Lone Ranger, riding hard from out
of the West.
Surreal snow in the Dakotas, where
you can't find your house, your street, though you are not
in a dream or a science fiction movie.
Snow that tastes good to the sun when it licks black tree limbs,
leaving us only one white stripe.
A replica of a skunk.
Unbelievable snows, the blizzard that
strikes on the tenth of April.
The false snow before Indian summer.
The big snow on Mozart's birthday
when Chicago became the Elysian Fields and strangers
spoke to each other.
Paper snow, cut and taped to the inside of grade school windows.
In an old tale, the snow that covers a nest of strawberries.
Small hearts, ripe and sweet.
The special snow that goes with Christmas
whether it falls or not.
The Russian snow we remember along
with the warmth and smell of our furs
though we have never traveled to Russia or worn furs.
The young snows of yesteryear, lost with ladies,
gone out like matches.
The snow in Joyce's "The Dead."
The silent secret snow in a story
by Conrad Aiken, which is a snow of first love.
The snowfall between the child and the space woman on TV.
Snow as idea of whiteness.
As in snow drop, snow goose, snowball bush.
The snow that puts stars in your hair and your hair
which has turned to snow.
The snow Elinor Wylie walked in in "Velvet Shoes."
The snow before her footprints and the snow after.
The snow in the back of our heads,
whiter than white, which has to do with childhood again
each year.