Winter in the Poetry of Robert Frost
The darkness of the season and the struggles of older men
An impending winter storm
All-day they’ve predicted nasty winter weather, a cruel night of snow, ice, and drizzle. All-day I’ve waited with a mixture of dread, anticipation, and wonder, a sloppy blend of emotion as unpredictable as the weather itself.
No one hates winter more than I do. When the temperature dips below 70 degrees, my toes turn to ice, my lips chap, and my nose looks like Rudolph’s.
Usually, the very idea of a snow flurry makes me want to flee to a hot tropical island. But even for summer-loving me, the coming of a winter storm is weirdly exhilarating. I’m awestruck by the force of nature, the power that temporarily transforms our world, obliterating all borders and boundaries made by human hands. I’m literally blown away by how completely indiscriminate SNOW is, falling on EVERYTHING. How nature itself covers the sharp angles of our modern world and blurs them into curves and hills of unending, blinding white.
But underlying the excitement and anticipation, there’s dread rippling as an undercurrent, dread that associates a winter storm with feelings of loneliness and despair. Maybe I had an overdose of poetry when I was younger. Maybe my psyche was…
