An Inspector Of Snowstorms Poem by Robert S. Mullens

'For many years I was self-appointed inspector of snowstorms.'

Henry Thoreau

What is there in this snowstorm?
So close to my door, it's on the porch.

Accessible as any desert to a Bedouin.
Christ wouldn't have had look any further.

For what is out there? Snow? Wind?
A few rolling hills?
Some kind of temptation?

Isn't this dark wind and snow an excuse.
A slow way to walk out on death.
To see who will provide. To inspect
The snowstorm as well as ourselves.

To see how fast the snow falls
And from what angle. Which branches hold the snow,
And where it collects in drifts.