I'd like to write about this first coming of snow -
the great winter equalizer of all the blemishes in landscape that may exist
after fall has done it's harvest deed.
I'm not sure why I personify winter with a woman, but I do:
In the part of my brain that doesn't rationalize that winter is a season and a cold one at that.
It's a pleasant fantasy of imagination to think of Winter coming into the room or down a trail in the forest like someone kind, out of Narnian folklore, wearing glittering robes & shades of white, gray and iridescence. Smiling demurely as all nods off to sleep mildly at her touch.
It's dreamlike.
The reality remains that the coming of snowfall brings quiet.
Particularly to this small town suburb that is so often occupied with motion.
Here, on a Sunday evening as the dusk eases quickly into darkness; streetlights already aglow,
I take first steps out onto virgin crystals gathered, then blowing at my feet.
A breath of pleasure leaves me
as I quietly delight in the small sounds I make in this newly hushed, yet familiar place.
For certain, my toes quickly chill and I return to the promise of warmer extremities.
Yet as the lamplight casts glitter from flakes on my hat, catching my eye in the mirror -
I wish I would return, staying longer
to explore the blanketed panorama
out my door.
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