On the 1888 blizzard and burning of Palmer Block in Amherst, for the occasion of the inaugural swearing-in of our First Amherst Town Council.
The storm started warm,
Amherst residents agreed,
and there were crocuses.
The crocuses are not a metaphor
unless you wish them to be.
A blizzard’s coming and you know it
because that’s how history works.
A fire on its heels and you know that, too.
It’s hard not reading more into everything:
we have a new town council
and that word “new” gets us every time.
Stick with the history, you say,
as the crocuses won’t stay uncovered.
March 1888 snow fell so quickly
some children stayed at school.
Some tried for home
and had to leave the sleigh.
Another grabbed his yearling’s tail
and trusted in the horse.
Neighbors took in the wandering.
The newspapers reported the tales
briefly and without awe:
a strong man, no name given,
rescued Rev. Fisher in the whiteout.
Another spotted a hat and dug out
a little girl, still alive. Drifts to 20 feet.
When the fire started in town
no one could reach the perfect sea of flame,
Mrs. Hall and daughter not knowing
for hours if Mr. Hall and the younger
daughter lived. And you will think
this also is a metaphor, the separation
of one half from the other
and yet no deaths in all of Amherst
though the ash and snow conspired.
And you will think this whole thing
a setup, the conflation
of a new town governance,
a blizzard of adult proportions,
the grand and terrible blaze.
Things held next to each other
beg for comparisons. I tell you
the people of Amherst watched
for each other and everyone lived.
Doors opened. The stranded were fed.
Volunteers shouldered the fire hoses
and fought through drifts,
teams clearing the way.
“Town” and “gown” did excellent work,
reported the Amherst Record.
The blizzard remembered
not because our town was buried
but because we stood together,
dug our way out, rebuilt
what once had burned.