June Snow

A historical poem about the spiritual unraveling of a New England farmer during the “Year without a Summer” (1816), the aftermath of the Mount Tambora eruption.

Frost burrows
between the pine boards
of the sagging house
where the forest ends
and my regret begins
 
The morning sulks,
a sickly child-
pale, malnourished
Face stiff with silence
and judgement
 
The air spits hail
shredding tender shoots
My crops curl
blackened and crumbling
like the truth I refuse to harvest
 
Last summer’s turnips,
now gone woody
are boiled for the children
They chew
the punishment I earned
 
Their eyes watch
accusing flakes fall
Swirling
in a sky that mourns.
June snow.
 
Neighbor stands
head down
in his field
The wheat, once sunlit
now dressed for death
 
We don’t speak
I wonder
if he knows
what I’ve done.
I brought the frost.
 
The sun averts its eyes
turns its back
on my shame
The soil won’t feed us
The cows are thin
 
Wife’s hands shake
when she kneads stale bread
Is it hunger
or knowing
that makes her tremble?
 
I dream of the warmth
from the woman
past my gate
that night.
The one I beg God to erase
 
I’ve killed my family.
 
I’ve killed us all. 

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

In previous centuries there was no way to know about the effects of international weather. I imagine there really were agricultural people in the US who felt that volcanic eruption in Asia was a Divine judgment.

[John Sullivan]

While not a farmer, I am a New Englander. Something about this piece just evokes our late January's and February's... that silence of the snow. There's more going on here, but that's the image that comes to mind. How quiet the snow is. Anyways, nicely done.