snow day today. snow. day. this is a most wonderful day.
it is the middle of march, we're recuperating from the winter and the cold and the brutality of the season and we're anticipating and welcoming the spring and the sun, most importantly the sun, and the feel of it, when, it snows. it snows five inches of glorious snow, and thus we have a snow day.
i thought that i would mind, but i didn't. worked on the Register. snow sits delicately and perfectly on the bare branches of trees, clean snow, rejuvenating snow. winter-wonderland truly, only it is nearly spring. still air, not even cold weather. driving down tree-lined, snow-covered lanes. snow sitting on this house's chimney.
Deer out the window of the library. perfect footprints across the ground, deeper than we expected it to be. snowy footprints. snow prints.
and it is snowing still, and i'm not even angry, i could never be angry at you snowfall, snow-fly. you are too perfect and pretty.
oh, and rolling farmland of Indiana, how snow blankets you so casually, so wonderfully, so simply, and oh-how you remind me of the night i touched the ground.
and oh, rolling farmland of Indiana, how I forgive you. Forgive me too, for i often curse you. But dilapidated barns and resting tractors and furrowed rows and even the precious pig farmers, and even the intersecting railroad tracks and slums and liquor stores and bars located in too-good for them old buildings. Forgive me.
And oh! the intricate molding found on all old buildings, old buildings with snow resting in all and each of your crevices. Life is too good to me. Window ledges are too good to me. Chimneys and bird nests and bird cages and painted brick floors are too good to me.
This is all too good, what a glorious day.
i thought that i would mind, but i didn't. worked on the Register. snow sits delicately and perfectly on the bare branches of trees, clean snow, rejuvenating snow. winter-wonderland truly, only it is nearly spring. still air, not even cold weather. driving down tree-lined, snow-covered lanes. snow sitting on this house's chimney.
Deer out the window of the library. perfect footprints across the ground, deeper than we expected it to be. snowy footprints. snow prints.
and it is snowing still, and i'm not even angry, i could never be angry at you snowfall, snow-fly. you are too perfect and pretty.
oh, and rolling farmland of Indiana, how snow blankets you so casually, so wonderfully, so simply, and oh-how you remind me of the night i touched the ground.
and oh, rolling farmland of Indiana, how I forgive you. Forgive me too, for i often curse you. But dilapidated barns and resting tractors and furrowed rows and even the precious pig farmers, and even the intersecting railroad tracks and slums and liquor stores and bars located in too-good for them old buildings. Forgive me.
And oh! the intricate molding found on all old buildings, old buildings with snow resting in all and each of your crevices. Life is too good to me. Window ledges are too good to me. Chimneys and bird nests and bird cages and painted brick floors are too good to me.
This is all too good, what a glorious day.