but shining night calls
shocked gaping glance out
to see how dark
is lost to sight.
Or we could say that the snowfall drops such amazing light reflective crystals all around that when you walk into your dark but multi-windowed kitchen your eyes meet the shock of light night.
night lit up by snow.
It’s fun to play with words and make them thick but meaningful. The snow does that with night’s dark canopy, usurping the cloak and shedding great gobs of black with every inch of white piled light.
It was a treat to wake up to even more snow after a fun shock of white night. The day brought the best pleasure when at the screen porch door my cat came howling after a week of absence. The blanket of snow left me bereft and sure he was most likely a goner. But hope wouldn’t quit, a quiet roar down there in a corner of my doubt. As I drifted off to sleep I felt his little soul call, a cat sweet and clear. Sounds odd perhaps but it’s not unusual for me. So, I called back quietly: “come home, silly.” Within hours he’s at the door. Maybe a coincidence but a lovely one nevertheless. When snow falls and a cat lost returns, the only thing left to do is enjoy the melting snow on a kitchen floor made merry with three tired children.
The things I love about snow: the highlighting of beauty made by simplest white covering, a hovering chill that stirs the blood and the fattest slice of silence echoing thick resonance to souls who hear those sweet variations of nature’s quiet.
The best times take you by surprise. You’re walking through the hallway. You note the absence of sound. No wind. No cricket’s call. Not much unusual but yes, something heavy fat silence sweet. Nothing but you and the hall and the deepest whispering quiet beyond your home’s walls. Turn to listen more. Something’s different. Pause. Smile, maybe, just maybe. You find the closest window and sigh. Yep. There’s the din of quiet: snow’s unique hushed fall. Then you go to the kitchen for broadest vista and the glow smiles back from festive night filling up to white.
jruthkelly © 2009