To walk in the tumble of
falling snow and
hear the soft coldness
rustle
is to capture girlhood delight
from the passages of memory.
Drifting recollections of
sleds and snowcream,
little people bundled in snowsuits -
funny wobbling monsters we were,
zippers better than snaps, I recall,
snowballs thrown with giggles
disintegrating before impact as often as not,
snow angels and
laughter
so much laughter.
I high-step
through now-white woods
holding saplings for balance.
Jeans soaked.
Socks wet.
Toes cold.
Nose numb.
Happy!
I had almost forgotten
the way snow squeaks
with each step,
almost forgotten ~ but not quite ~
the clean innocence of snow air,
fresh and cold with each breath I take.
I stop to hear the silence deepen,
for I am alone among the trees
watching flake upon flake upon flake upon flake upon flake
fashion landscapes
that change moment by moment,
obscuring the meadow I know so well.
In the accumulating quiet
my world and I are transformed with
awakened soul-memories.
Then as the hours change
the sun reappears
and billions of tiny mirrors flicker
the wonder of snow.
Original photography by Dorothy Barkley Bryson, January 15, 16, & 17, 2024
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