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Wyoming I do not own.

Winter is so long! It is not as though we are snowed in. We are wintered in. On September 9 it was twenty degrees and all the plants in the garden but parsley died. Black tomato vines tumbled down to mush, and eggplant and beans, the parsley sparkling green a noisy cheer. Then cold and wind and the dark growing each day, night overwhelming the day until December 3 when it began to snow and snowed for three days, forty inches in all. We built a snow hut and dug paths to get from the house to the compost pit to the studio to the sheep wagon. All of January, then February, March and, unyieldingly, April. In May I hammered my way into the earth, digging a trench for a gas line. As I dug, the wind cut through me and the snow fell, May 9, May 10, May 11, until May 12 when the sun shone and it was hot and winter ended. It did? Winter is not winter. The blue sky draws me up to Cloud Peak. I have forgotten my skis and so tuck my hands in my pockets, curl up in a ball and roll down the mountain to town where I rise from my slide at my back door. I touch the knob. It is cold! I knock and when the door opens, walk on in.
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Author:Romtvedt, David
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Mar 1, 1993
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