Snow

The sun is shining on my face and glinting off the snow.  Yes, we have real snow that shines white and bright.  It outlines the twigs and branches with highlights and hangs heavy on the leaves.  It squeaks as you walk over it, crunching into compact layers that hold your prints.  It transforms lawns into cake-tops, thick, sweet and smooth, but thins on paths and melts from hot roofs.  It clumps and collects as it is swept from windscreens and walkways, and along the edge of the road it gathers our dirt to itself like a nurse.

Last night the flakes were falling fast, chasing us home to shelter from the wild.  Now they have finished their job and we are invited to look and to play.  Can anyone go past and not look, not notice the dark way into the wood lit bright with beauty, the branches arching overhead dressed up for the occasion, the fields stretching nearer in the light, and all linked, all made one with this blanket from heaven that muffles our busy sounds, that reflects the sun into our eyes, and fills the cold air with the present of peace?