photo © 2010 Billy Lindblom | more info (via: Wylio)
i’ve never seen eight inches of snow before …
Southern born and bred, i’m used to doing a snow dance for a mere
“wintry mix” of one or two inches, which is enough to keep all school buses below the Mason-Dixon sleeping soundly in their sheds.
But this blanket of white out my Midwest window might just convince me to do winter further north … it is unabashed beauty, this.
it fell all night, while we slept, quietly hiding our cars and burying our daily to-do list. we scooped it in buckets off the walk, and one wild boy ran into it with tongue outstretched, rolled in it like powdered sugar, left a three-foot-long snow angel print for the mailman to step through.
And it hit me, fresh: how this snow,
it’s like grace
– a metaphor in white.
Given in excess, so that even the realm of the gutter is filled to brim. sprinkled on our shoulders as we stare up wondering how.
i stood long today, squint-eyed from the blinding white, and i prayed that grace might melt into my skin. might permeate … through fur of hat and folds of scarf and three pairs of socks … for Oh, my soul, how i want that white.
to be as snow
… what wonder, that. and yet it is promised. it awaits all of those who dare believe in what is not yet seen
… like one who feels for certain that Spring will come
even in the dreary cold of winter.
i am thinking of sweet Baney today
as i watch my bundled peneLope,
all mittened and innocent as a new drift,
stares quizzically at those flakes falling.
That sweet, almond-skinned boy
… he is whiter than snow.