Snow, Snow, Snow

Sunday Morning. So quiet when I woke up. I looked out the window and there it was, the predicted snow, big flakes falling down like communion wafers to the earth. I used to think as a child that they were what snow tasted like, a taste I had to imagine, since we never had snow in SW Georgia, or not enough to, as my grandmother would say, shake a stick at.



I walked out to the front porch. Yes, snow. I hadn't been dreaming it while snuggling under the down comforter.



I looked up.



I looked down. Our Samoyed (mostly) Bro was standing at the door. The Magic Door. Why wasn't it opening?






I thought about the big snows we used to have here years ago in the valley and how once after a large one, I let Alma speak her isolation and vulnerability in a small cabin, left alone there in a winter storm.



(WILDWOOD FLOWER, LSU Press)

Now the snow has stopped. Time to go wash dishes and put the soup pot on for lunch. Yes, Alma spoke a poem to me about that, too. But I'll let that one wait till tomorrow. Or the next day.