Is It Snowing?

You Don’t Know Snow

You don’t know snow

until you’ve heard coyotes howl;

your eyes and whiskers frosted shut

and from your nether regions, feeling gone.

If hell is real, there’ll be no fire

just icy winds across a barren plain.

You don’t know snow

until the saw-edged bite of frost

burns your numbed toes and fingertips

when they’re forced awake.

: by Ben Nuttall-Smith

poem and painting from his book, Crescent Beach Reflections


Crescent Beach Reflections

Crescent Beach
It isn’t often that a poet is also a painter. A survivor of 83 years, Ben Nuttall-Smith put this delightful collection together for your enjoyment. Here’s a taste:

Princess Louisa Inlet

(B.C. Sunshine Coast)

shíshálh First Nations name “wiwelát”

When the Creator made swiwelát,

long before the mile-thick ice rolled down,

he thrust his mighty arms up through the mud

and flung the seed of forests to each side,

among the crags of granite and green stone.

No finger from the sky pronounced the deed,

though claps of thunder echoed hill to hill.

Then crowds of raven, crow and eagle came

to call the task well done and state their claim.

Davis Bay

Available here: “Crescent Beach Reflections eStore”