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
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| 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.
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