The promise of the first snow.
All is a blanket of white this morning,
and all I know is of quiet.
Paper white bulbs peer out the window,
Leaning so close, almost fogging the pane,
grinning for their love of home and warmth
and to be grounded in smooth stones.
Their roots finger their way between the round edges,
reaching deep down to the bottom,
holding on to the silence as long as possible.
But winter makes its way.
Slowly meandering through
in the echoes of children outside.
And the day comes with its colors,
like tracks in the fresh white snow.
week 1. The first snow.
On the morning of the first snow fall I sat drinking my coffee, looking outside the window. I began to hear the kids outside screaming, ready to sleigh down the hill in front of my home. It was still early and I just wanted to revel in the quiet a bit longer. I wanted to hold on to it as long as I possibly could. When you get a hold of that kind of quite within you, before the internal chatter of the day begins, it’s a good thing, but it’s usually gone in an instant.