Remote

I am clad in winter now, packed away by snow and cold and dark;
I become a flippered seal: thick layers of clothing insulate me like layers of blubber;
I see, hear so little too much: muffling snow tricks reflections of light and sound;
driving becomes absurd: slush and ice and snow in all those varieties
defeat tire treads until sideways and merry-go-round are the new forward.
At night, house lamps and streetlights varnish snow, casting their dim calls
up to dark low hanging clouds, making outdoors a dim, indeterminate
abysmal room in which this night walker waddles like child in a snowsuit
fearful of being struck by a rogue vehicle loosely under the semi-control
of a citizen whose encumbrances rival my own: I am the equivalent of
a severely arthritic, slightly demented, aged invalid. Since those adjectives
describe me fairly accurately indoors and in summer, perhaps I should be
grateful to this season that levels the playing field for me. Hail to winter!