Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
Snow-flakes, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It's been snowing all day. Time for blackberry tea and gazing out the window to observe the backyard get covered with winter. I like the quietness of days like this. I contemplate life while I watch the inches of snow accumulate. Sooner or later, it's time to shovel the sidewalk. Afterwards, more hot tea. And lots of blankets. And a fire in the fireplace.
Lentil soup for dinner with fresh baked bread.