Under the Snow

Outside, the snow falls, a thin pane of glass separating comfort from cold, damp from dry. I shuffle through the memory box in my mind, trying to remember if I felt the chill as a child, sliding and skating, packing snow with mittened hands, fashioning three-tiered beings whose smiles of broken sticks were nearly more fleeting than one could imagine youth would be. Portends of time: melting away. Today, would I dare throw myself on my back in the snow, thrashing out horizontal jumping jacks to create a frozen angel? No. As if there were a maximum height limit on living free.

There is an old photograph of me sitting on a snow bank, a bundled-up child of 5 or 6. My parents kept the sun at their backs when they took snaps, better for the photo. My face is scrunched up, my head a bit tilted. I can't tell if I am squinting or crying, yet, despite the answer (the thousand words lost for all time), my memory box tells me I loved winter as a boy. And I will let it.

Now, winter for me is a time to long for spring, spring a time to long for youth, a time for a different dream. There is something sticky about placing the beginning of the new year in the dead of the frozen season, something odd. Surely the time of rebirth and reawakening can't take place under the snow, trapped in the deep frost. 'Tis the sun's healing light we need.

Or a shuffle through the memory box.

Make a wish, Dominic!

"Now that I have everyone's attention..."

Cat on an old dead log.

Waiting for the water nymphs...

A whole field full of invisible cows!

Fences and boundary lines, like winter and spring, delineate and detail our lives.

As always, thanks for stopping by and take care.

(Bottom two photos courtesy of Romola Alamed)

---

Home|Welcome|Table of Contents|Explore|Upcoming Events|Patrons|Marketplace|Contact|Privacy

---