Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-
folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-
fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
and then I smile.
Yes! I build a fire. I make soup and bread and cookies and hot chocolate and I smile. Because I AM the snow lady.
If you’ve hung out with me for any period of time, you know how much I LOVE winter weather and snow. And, usually, after I make that particular proclamation someone will casually ask me, “Now how many winters have you spent with snow?” And I stammer and say, “Many… but they have all been inside my head.”
You see, outside of my head, in reality, that number is zero.
UNTIL…
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