February 3, 2014 In life and the universe By Patricia Saxton

Snow Day

It always surprises people to learn that I like snow. You see, I hate to be cold. My body was built for the tropics, I’m convinced. I absolutely love to be warm and unencumbered by the bulk of clothing that winter requires. Warm is free, light and easy. Cold is a nuisance.

But, I am an appreciator of beauty, and there is something quintessentially lovely in falling snow. Purity, refreshment, a marvelous stillness, the world, and time, stopping.

I even like driving in the snow. Before the sand and plows get there. Like this morning, we were inconveniently low on a couple of essentials (milk and ice cream); I admit I got a little bit excited about trekking out where few dare to trek. (This apparently is my current version of adventure; but let’s not examine that too closely, alright?) Affirming my skill at maintaining the right speed down a hill and then maneuvering the turns “just so”. Being sure to stay in the snowier parts for better traction. Hardly anyone out and about, the roads all white, the trees dressed in their Sunday best. What can I say? It’s a winter wonderland.

And then, of course, there’s a winter fireplace. Snow outside, fire inside = cozy. And then, of course, there’s hot chocolate.

So, as I often say, if it’s going to be cold, there might as well be snow and we might as well make the best of it.

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December 27, 2010 In poetry, words and language By Patricia Saxton

"Snow Day"

 

“Snow Day” by Billy Collins
Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows 

the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.

In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed,
the All Aboard Children’s School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with — some will be delighted to hear —

the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and — clap your hands — the Peanuts Play School.

So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.

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