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:
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 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
the quiet of the air pierced by
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,
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.