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Words for Snow


I know the same words that natives know

in the expansive arctic—it is said they speak


over 400 words for snow. When I say snow

I mean to say the spirit of winter, isolation


for isolated minds in the naked freeze—tundra,

permafrost quieting the moss and lichen—


or below the tree line, how alpines slope south

blanketed by a mantle of slush slow to melt.


I say snowfall so lonely that if I could help it

keep falling, perpetual descent in wind’s savage


December pulse, if I could help it I would

fall along with it and let winter speak for itself.




Bret Shepard

levelheaded: Words for Snow


The title “Words for Snow” reads a few different ways. It can be understood that these words are representative of snow. Alternatively, these could be words given to snow, as one might give a gift. And, perhaps most significantly, “words for snow” can be understood as words on behalf of snow, which is incapable of speech.


In the poem’s first line, the speaker identifies himself with other humans. What do they have in common? They “know the same words.” Thus, consciousness (knowing) and language (words) distinguish people early on. This has been the case since humankind (“natives”) first laid foot “in the expansive artic.”


Words can be cold—hence the clever syntax and line break of line two. They can be complicated—hence the clever syntax and line break of line three. The list of definitions for snow that follows emphasizes how difficult it is to pin words to meanings. Saying “snow,” the speaker intends to say “the spirit of winter, isolation / for isolated minds in the naked freeze—tundra, / permafrost quieting the moss and lichen.”


Interestingly, this list moves from the mystic to the scientific. In the process, the words of individual lines, like the word “snow” itself, are constantly being redefined. “[T]he spirit of winter” = “isolation.” Then, a line later we learn, “the spirit of winter” = “isolation for isolated minds in the naked freeze.” Followed by a dash, “the naked freeze” melds into “tundra,” which in turn, is redefined by the biology textbook terms that follow.


Sadly, the words “moss” and “lichen” can’t encompass the mystery of moss and lichen. And snow, beautiful as it is, is unable to expound on its own beauty. Enter the poet. He or she is capable of marrying thought to language, science to mysticism. When others can’t speak, the poet can’t resist speaking on their behalf.



– The Editors