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To walk in the tumble of

falling snow and

hear the soft coldness


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


so much laughter.


I high-step

through now-white woods

holding saplings for balance.

Jeans soaked.

Socks wet.

Toes cold.

Nose numb.



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

TO CONNNECT. I would love to hear from you and learn how this piece (or any of my other writings here) resonate with you and your journey to finding your own deepest self, your own Real. While these writings are about my path, my hope is that they shine light for yours. You can email me directly at or you can also simply subscribe via the home page of this website. May peace and happiness be yours, always. 

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