Snowed In

Wishes do come true, in their time, in their fashion.

aslice of life

A Slice Of Life

Although here in reality it’s not at all as in the photo. Yet the snow is beautiful, and constant. A true winter story.

This is more a scene from my childhood when everything was larger, and grander, and closer. Yet I am certain that the snow and the seasons were much more intense and bountiful those many years ago. There is in fact an old black and white photo of my aunt standing in front of a snow pile that was well over 10′ tall. It was taken in Fargo, ND. We took and kept the photo for posterity. It’s somewhere in a box from many moves remaining unpacked. Waiting—I suppose—for posterity to arrive.

Snow

Snow. Snow snow. Snow snow snow… As with other words, repeated it becomes strange, a meaningless sound, a feel of tongue and teeth and lips. Words. Not the thing itself, not at all. Else we would stop each time some words are said, stop to feel the crystals melt on the tongue, face lifted to the sky, face brushed with kisses.

Walked in, played with, fallen into, more like a heaven of white and joy. The magical, the mystical, the miracle of timelessness.

in the stillness of the night ....by barbara klonowo

in the stillness of the night…by barbara klonowo

Thank God the snow has at last begun, winter has at last appeared, our coats now matter, zippers pulled tight. And we can know we belong to this earth, this place where each portion of the year has earned our respect, our love, and often—our sweet surprise. The light upon the earth has begun.

Merry Christmas

              …From The Past

artisticNature2

Artistic Nature

Yes. Dropped from the sky, a vision of the past. In my past my grandfather was an engineer on the Great Northern Railroad. I was quite proud of that. At every railroad track where we were required to wait while the train rumbled past, we watched carefully and hollered out, “There’s one!” at every Great Northern car that passed.

In Doctor Zhivago (the movie) a train carrying Trotsky goes rumbling past at great speed while the whistle screamed. It was breathtaking.

Trains were the arteries of the past, pumping magic and mystery along with the great turning wheels and screeching brakes. Every child dreamed of jumping onboard one of the open cars to be carried like a bum onto the next town. In my dreams sometimes I still see a railroad station where I stand, waiting for the next zephyr to come screaming down to take me somewhere, somewhere as yet unseen. And it’s always snowing, sometimes for Christmas.