it is the calm before the storm.

the air is still and the world is quiet, it’s tongue outstretched, taking pause.

it happens slowly, carefully; the weather cannot be rushed.

softly, hardly disrupting the silence, the flakes begin to fall:




then twenty,

each one an original, a token of gratitude from the sky.

the ground mirrors the clouds, grey and near bursting with snowflakes, all

swirling and sliding and fighting to be the first to fall,

the first to meet the crunch of the frosty earth waiting patiently below.


then fifty,

then four hundred,

and it’s a blizzard; the snow focused and widespread, covering the ground with white:

a clean cold blanket,

pristine and perfect for mere moments before its surface is interrupted by

tiny feet in

too-large snowboots,

the quiet of the air pierced by

shouts and

whoops and

elated giggles.

little bodies slip and slide,

throwing snowballs and sledding on lunch trays and

making snow angel after snow angel,

thanks to the heavens for sending this gift,

this day,

which will be etched in our memories until we can play no longer,

until we must watch from inside,

remembering the taste of the

snowflakes on our tongues.