Night, star-sparkled world of white,
bright as new moon-lit glow;
secretly blanketed through the night,
a smooth-scaped uncrevassed show.
This white-hued world blinds my sight;
this fragile beauty, though transient,
forces mankind to slow-manic rush.
In this untainted frail-frozen landscape, lovers’ lament
as children play and cars quickly crush,
and life slows, captive to the whirling torrent.
White canvas transforms to dull, dirt-blackened slush.
Beauty, like new formed snow, endures but a moment.
Star-bright eyes, unwrinkled smooth brow, youth’s first blush;
there must be more to slow, sagging, life aging torment.
Like faces, love for this transient beauty turns to mush
An “18 incher” was just part of winter life growing up in Pennsylvania. There was nothing more amazing as a kid then to wake up to mom yelling, “School is closed today!” and then feeling that glorious, hyper-screaming, jumping-up-and-down moment, relived far and wide. There was a set of unspoken “rules” to the day. Get on my snow suit and regalia. Get a shovel. Fall into (then) thigh high snow. Play with my brother (who always shoved me face-first in it). I would come in cherry red and get hot chocolate, dead tired but satisfied.
Missouri is quite disappointing in the winter. It rarely snows, preferring ice storms to their softer cousins. Now as an adult, either of these weather messes bring a very different view, mainly stress and aggravation. But when one has nowhere to go, plenty of food, a great fire and time, virgin snow still is a beautiful gift.