 |
|||||||||||||
 |
|
 |
|||||||||||
 |
 |
||||||||||||
I am sitting in a rocking chair drinking hot cocoa in front of a roasting fireplace we are cooking chestnuts that we collected in the fall and every now and again a magical wind seeps through the open vent, and entrances me to look out the window it beckons "why are you still inside?" so i pull on my longjohns and my overcoat too entangle a scarf and look out the frosted and foggy window pane i draw a heart with my fingers and put on my hat and mittens i've bundled myself quite well and a peaceful excitement stirs my heart it ignites the lantern in my left hand the same way with a dim warmth and i make may way out into the world safely tucked in by a blanket of snow that has put everyone in sight into a very happy quiet. its not a silence, for the owl still hoots the nocturnal world awake and the crunching from my boots along the snow still exists but it is muffled it has no echo. its a very crisp night a sensation often attached to the love of morning birds but it suits the occasion well as i can still smell the smoky atmosphere billowing, curling, its irresistible aroma from my home, yonder three kilometres back. the snow makes walking enjoyable. in fact, it makes everything enjoyable. each step an adventure, each different than the last one may slip to the left, the other may get your boot stuck inbetween ice. but everything is so serene. for in all this quiet, there is an undeniable calm nothing in the world could happen the world is frozen in an unexplicable content face its a happiness that derives from nature from childhood memories of making snowangels behind the barn or taking a sleigh ride with Farmer Joe I walk to one of my childhood memories The pond. We leave our skates tied to the old willow tree Louise's is on the bottommost branch, Daddy's is round the trunk (his laces are very long) Mother's is around the branch closest to the evergreen, and mine is on the root. good ol' Becca, was the root of most situations, daddy says. and the smiles, and laughter they fill the quiet air, but they do not overpower overtake it quiet still prevails. and one step on the ice, than another, and a twirl, and my arms are open wide staring at the incandescent moon. I only circle in giant eights, that way, I may enjoy every bit of the pond, and the smoky atmosphere transforms into cherry pipe tobacco and burnt marshmallows. winter has no age. and I could sit until the heavens lifted me above here in this enchanted winter world. for november brings the cold chill home, to prepare for december's holidays. January is winter month, it is when winter has us all to herself. and she wastes no minute to take us into her arms. we have no car in winter. we stay at home for 4 whole months unless we use our snow shoes or our sleigh, and even then, we oblige that we stay where we are headed overnight or until the snow has stopped the two most beautiful sights in winter's wonderful blanket is its perfect, neverending quilt, or with one's steps running through it, more than one, and you have slush, urban behaviour, disregard, no appreciation, and winter will treat you the same. be good to the most precious season of them all, for she always has you in mind. and so i find a new path, at the edge of the pond, where the geese lay their eggs and make their home, there's a small log cabin that Brendan built for me, and his heart lives in there with the cot, and the fire. and i fall asleep, staring out the window, watching the gentle snow start afresh finding new people to fall in love with and embracing its joy it grows. we grow. goodnight sweet stars, and tender moon, take care of winter, i'll see you soon. Post a comment in response: |
| © 2002-2008. Blurty Journal. All rights reserved. |