It wasn’t long ago when small green shapes, like soft blades, slowly poked up out of the dirt and last autumn’s leaves, the color of rusted iron. Then stems and yellow petals. Red, blue, golden too, and purple. It felt like months of winter here in the hills were beginning to blossom into spring. Almost. Then one afternoon our green world turned back into white.
The tulips and daffodils don’t seem to mind. Nor do the Sparrows, Finches, and Western Bluebirds. (Shh, I don’t mind either. Shh, it’s heretical to say this in California, but I don’t want to let go of the snow’s cold embrace.)
The Seventh Storm of Winter
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here
to bless the falling snow.Let it bury us and all our cares and pains, and bury
every one of our wishes and preoccupations, especially
the ones we think are most important.Let it, which neither scorns nor loves, but falls
on all our lives with the same indifferent silence,
bury our pasts and bury every one of our dreams as well.We pray you, blessed snow, to leave bare spots
beneath the apple trees for winter birds to peck for
seeds, but otherwise, please blanket our incessanthuman chatter beneath the frigid benediction of your
whiteness so we can pull up the covers of our beds
and burrow even deeper into sleep like hibernating batsand bears and not emerge until the ides of March, or April,
or maybe not until the ides of May.
(There you have it, friends: Shh, I hope my secret thoughts are safe with you.)
