Snow Day

It has been snowing a ton in Utah! Consequently, I thought I would pen a poem about snow with photos: Here goes:

Snow Day

It’s the whiteness that overwhelms you at first,

the softness of the snow, floating lazily down

like bags of feathers dropped from on high,

somewhere beyond the grayish imbued clouds.

It settles peacefully on branches of Blue Spruce

and leafless peach and apple trees, covering them

Photo courtesy of Karen Larson Watson

with a blanket of pure quietness and serenity.

Some limbs are more burdened than others.

Perhaps, they are stronger, feel more connectedness to snow,

like mothers to babies and people to their dogs.

From the window, we watch closely, surreptitiously

as the snow piles deeper and deeper, clogging roads,

our driveways, our senses of wellness.

As the breeze caresses the heavy-laden branches and boughs,

and sticks of dead daisies and lilies, it flicks bits of snow off

and into its melodic breeze, carrying the white fluff

beyond and then slowly, lovingly to the ground, where it will sleep

for days, perhaps even weeks,  and then melt into the ground,

savoring the moments when its hoard moisture seeps

into new roots of the sleeping grass and flowers and life.

And we sit there, observing from our perch behind sheer curtains,

in front of a glowing fire, warm, comfortable, and complacent

while contemplating our lives and who or what will nourish them.

The whole poem here:

Snow Day

It’s the whiteness that overwhelms you at first,

the softness of the snow, floating lazily down

like bags of feathers dropped from on high,

somewhere beyond the grayish imbued clouds.

It settles peacefully on branches of Blue Spruce

and leafless peach and apple trees, covering them

with a blanket of pure quietness and serenity.

Some limbs are more burdened than others.

Perhaps, they are stronger, feel more connectedness to snow,

like mothers to babies and people to their dogs.

From the window, we watch closely, surreptitiously

as the snow piles deeper and deeper, clogging roads,

our driveways, our senses of wellness.

As the breeze caresses the heavy-laden branches and boughs,

and sticks of dead daisies and lilies, it flicks bits of snow off

and into its melodic breeze, carrying the white fluff

beyond and then slowly, lovingly to the ground, where it will sleep

for days, perhaps even weeks,  and then melt into the ground,

savoring the moments when its hoard moisture seeps

into new roots of the sleeping grass and flowers and life.

And we sit there, observing from our perch behind sheer curtains,

in front of a glowing fire, warm, comfortable, and complacent

while contemplating our lives and who or what will nourish them.