It’s cold this morning, minus 20. The air coming off the southern window is still cool and I’m thankful for my scarf and wool socks.
The tangerine sky has a friendly tousled cast to it. The few clouds at the edge of the horizon are uncertain children being called away but wishing to stay and play.
I like clouds and thinking of them as children.
I like the tender concern on the faces of mothers walking young children across a snow-packed park; children with toques riding up on the back of their heads and over their eyes, tripping over unravelled scarves. Mothers forever releasing and catching.
I like rusting threshing machines knee deep in snow in 40 year-old stands of poplar and I like that this hints to me of Christmas.
I like birch trees, the bark peeling against a low sun, their shadows like totems against unbroken drifts.
I like walking in the cold when the air is still. I like the smell of frost.
I like water frozen in a tin kettle on a soon-to-be-hot wood stove. I like a sharp, well balanced axe, and the way good wood gives way.
Mothers forever releasing and catching.
(Birch) shadows like totems against unbroken drifts.
Mmmm. Marshmallow phrases on poetic hot chocolate.
Love this, Stephen! Can relate to the cautious stepping across parking lots this a.m., as we had a dump of the white stuff last night. Also enjoyed your winning essay, which I read in FellowScript. Keep the pen steaming!
Ha! Thanks Joyce…for the marshmallowy comment.
Thanks for the encouragement Violet.
The farm girl in me loved this one: “I like rusting threshing machines knee deep in snow in 40 year-old stands of poplar and I like that this hints to me of Christmas.”
Knee deep in snow and then coming into the warm house, pants snow-soaked and smelling like wet dog.
Thanks Brenda, Yes, and all the frozen bits of snow hanging from wool pants like ornaments.