- Books, Literature, and Writing
Wake up to winter
bright and white,
as light falls softly
on the still lingering night.
warm tendrils of gold
then suddenly bold.
We walk out hand in hand
on feet cold and bare,
skin tingling in the early morning air.
One step then another
until each toe turns red
urging us reluctantly back toward bed.
Laughing teeth chatter
staring out at the snow
wondering, wondering at how little we know.
Winter In Vermont
I hate the cold. So it's ironic how much I love living in a state that is freezing six months of the year. The truth is that for all the numb fingers, clunky winter boots, hibernation inducing darkness and calorie rich snow days there is something about staring out into a white landscape until only your deepest thoughts remain.
The days when you awaken to find hemlock limbs weighted to the ground with a foot of sticky white frosting, or find yourself bundling up to take an impromptu midnight walk across a moonlit field so bright you can trace the shadows with your eyes. There is too, the excitement of the first snowdrop and crocus in the spring, each color infinitely more saturated due to the lack of them for so long. But nothing quite beats the first snowfall.
When I was a little girl my mother and I always walked out barefoot in it, slipping off our socks at the red door and tiptoeing across the cold grey stone of the porch to walk out towards the open field. We never made it very far, distracted by the fat flakes melting on our warm faces and the softened outlines of familiar shapes made new and suddenly beautiful by this thin layer of white. It was our own little ceremony, performed in silence and awe and never spoken of later. Even now, I find myself doing it, no matter where I am or who I'm with I feel the pull to slip away into the silence of that moment, frozen in time like a collage of years, I always feel the same sense of smallness and fascination.