Snow

There is no simple reaction to snow in a person who is native to New England. The poetic curves of drifts, the tender touch of tiny dry flakes on the rosy cheek, the transformation of mundane landscapes into pure white mazes and plateaus. The full moon on a crystal night after a blizzard turns the world a pale blue. Modern urban folk turn all this beauty into a clumped and sooty mess in a matter of hours. The car takes precedence over the beauty. Pedestrians must pick their way along very cautiously. No more mass revelry with sleds. I took a long walk today, the clear cold day after a blizzard. I wondered at a snow-covered beach, edging a deep blue bay. In moments like those, I celebrate the essential beauty of life on this planet.