It's the blanketing of white nothingness; serene calm and quiet snow.
Each snowfall is unique. This one is very fine and small; yet deep, dry, and still.
Each light, each sun and moon, brings a muffled oasis - brilliantly bright, clean, glowingly dark and luminous.
Moonscapes. Teen terrorists with sleds. Yard boundaries undefined. And when dark, suddenly sleepy cold.
The pines in the forest are sharply defined, the ground beneath them swept away with a white brush stroke.
Squirrels are digging for walnuts in the snow. Red tablecloths are found inside.
Fuzzy pajamas crackle with static electricity. Childhood memories of an old house, scuffing socks along shag carpet and shocking the adults with a finger touch. Sparks bright in the dark.
Now we've found the childhood art: traced small fingers cut out and made into reindeer antlers, cotton glued onto construction paper for snow and snowmen, painted, glittered treasures stuck with magnets to the refrigerator.
The summer sounds - common sounds, insects, motorcycles, are gone. The quiet is peaceful. The sky quickly goes from brilliant and bright to gloomy, with flashing moods that pierce brightly again. It cycles back to dark, and then gets ominous.
Bone-chilling cold. Beautiful is the pure white snow. Precious is life, and is love.
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