Morning sun filters through icy trees to the driveway.
Snow has been blowing around here since Sunday. Nothing serious, not even a good covering on the ground; just enough to remind us that it is winter and snow may overtake our world at any time.
I keep hoping for a good snow day, the kind when the skies open up to dump soft grated ice in drifts on the ground, to hide the everyday and make the landscape an enchanted place of miniature mountains and valleys of sparkling whiteness. The forecast for tomorrow calls for "snow statewide." Does that mean little blowing bits, or a real good solid day of snow?
Icicles lace the edge of the roof of the cellar house.
I've been re-reading one of my favorite books of poetry, Winter Morning Walks by Ted Kooser. Written as 100 postcards to a friend as Kooser recovered from cancer, the poems speak of winter in simple language that surprises with its depth and description.
Like these lines from Five Below Zero:
You can imagine the face
of the cold, all wreathed in flying hair,
its long fingers spread, its thin blue lips
pressed into the indifferent ear
of the siding, whispering something
not one of us inside can hear.
Who can read that and not feel the chill fingers on their neck? Ted Kooser was our national Poet Laureate twice, and remains one of America's best poets, and my personal favorite. I find his writing easy to read and yet it lingers with me, recalling phrases and images for hours after I have put the book away.
(To see a video of Mr. Kooser speaking and reading his poetry, click here.)
The pond at the end of Joe's Run, covered with ice that froze so quickly it was clear.
Am I alone in my snow-lust? Are there others who long for a good solid covering of white?