Becketwood Cooperative
An Active, Independent 55+ Community of Owners in Minneapolis

More Winter Poems

Sometimes Winter Gets A Grip

Jill Breckenridge, Member, from The Sometimes Poems

on you like a bulldog shaking a stuffed

Christmas toy, the cotton flying, the

owners chasing him, calling, “Bad dog,

bad dog!” but he’s two steps ahead


of them, and the blizzard doesn’t stop,

white cotton flying, floating down,

coating everything, and it’s March 1st,


and I’ve had way too much snow,

snow, snow. Snow that I welcomed as

a present early in December, but now,


after 80 inches, I’m snow-tired…

Today presents light snow, trying to

sneak by with nearly invisible flakes,


but even light isn’t near enough

to nothing for me…




Snow At Dawn

Stephanie Gordon, Becketwood Member

Dawn approaches from the east

Rooftops become etched in snowy fur

The full heavens have opened

At orchestrated speed and brought winter!


Twelve hours have passed

Since the first snow did its dance

Pine boughs bow, laden with fullness

Overdue moisture has finally arrived.


Tree branches have lost their cloaks of green

Now proudly present a sheet of winter pristine

The world is white outside our window

Peace has come.



To Winter

Ingrid Stocking, Becketwood Member

If winter never returned,

what would we remember?

--the chill on the face,

the bundling,

the slipping,

the sniffling,

the upending,

the motors refusing to start?


But consider:  in Greenland, bubbles of ancient air

have been buried in mountainous ice

for 10,000 years.

Now they rise to join with tumbling water

pouring through the base of glaciers

that cover an expanse greater than Lower Manhattan.

The bubbles no longer exist,

except as part of the rising tides.


The glaciers die,  even as we do.

They have given us winter,

and protected our cities

from water, weather and time.

If winter never returns, we will recall it

With longing.



A Rhythm To This Place

Linda Back McKay, Becketwood Member, from The Next Best Thing

You feel it in every movement

along the crust of snow.


There is sugar in sunlight,

an iced confection


in the blanched mounds,

decorated with branched


shadows spaced to fit

here. The burrowed place


within yourself is where

you go on skis that make


sounds like zippers on plastic.

Ghoulish ghosting shifts


the day into sunset

when tentacles blacken


on trees. You feel

the heat of your heart.


There is no escape.

Not through brambles,


not through the frozen swamp.

You follow yourself always.


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