Snow.

Central Park Walkway Under Snow (21 February 2010)” by Ekabhishek

I had the privilege, if you can call it that–and you can–of shoveling about a foot of snow out of my driveway this morning.  Falling snow always provides a rare opportunity to suspend adulthood for a moment, and truly feel a sense of wonder.  The pitter-pat of the snowflakes falling on my hood, the distant sound of some piece of machinery, likely being used to dig someone else out from under this heavy, white down of snow.  Poets always say that snow falls silently.  Perhaps if one’s only experience of the snow is watching it fall from the warmth and comfort of one’s living room, then it might appear to make no sound at all.  But, a few minutes spent outside in the midst of a storm will bring forth the hiss of the snow as it passes through layers of small branches and vines that line the yard, and the crackle of each flake as it bounces off a freshly scraped windshield.  And, occasionally, the thud of clumped, wet snow slipping from the trees onto the road.  Today was particularly special, as it is so near the end of February and I know this snowfall won’t last long.  Just a few days ago, our car tires were carving canyons in the mud, the permafrost already relinquishing control to several days of warmer temperatures.  After all the hard work was done, I found an untouched area, and flopped myself down, snowangel-style, and just let the flakes fall cold on my nose, my eyes, my lips, like precious, sweet kisses from the clouds.  I lay there until I could feel the cold creeping through to my skin.  What a wonderful gift, to have these seasons in our lives.

“The Snow Man” by Wallace Stevens:

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.