I love snow. It’s as simple as that. Whether it’s a powdered sugar dusting or an up-to-my-knees accumulation, there is something about snow that puts my spirit at ease. Maybe it’s because the extra fluff absorbs all the sound and everything appears to be still and quiet. Perhaps it’s the way the crystals reflect the light and create an otherworldly glow about the earth. I can’t really put my finger on it–I just know that there is something about snow that offers my soul the sacred gift of peace.
This morning, I sit in the warmth of my kitchen and peer out the window at the few birds who’ve braved the wind for mouthful of seed. The steam from my chamomile green tea winds slowly upward and fogs the window. It is a morning of unexpected solitude, and my heart meditates on one of one of my favorite poems.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
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