Snowbound

Here in Connecticut it is snowing. My birds are happily pecking at the seed in their feeder, the cats are curled up by the heater vents and the dogs are begging to go outside and play.

I’m listening to Dolly Parton and Rod Stewart sing “Baby it’s Cold Outside” and I think I’m inspired to start wrapping Christmas presents or make some cookies or do something holidayish.

I feel like I’m inside a snow globe and I love that feeling.

For those people who have to travel in this weather, I am sorry. But for the lucky ones like me who can stay inside, warm and cozy – a snow storm is a treat of treats.

Some flakes are so big you can almost here them hit the ground with a thud. The dried up winter lawn now looks like it’s covered in ermine.

The feathers of the cardinal, perched at my feeder, are blood red against the white, swirling background.

From the window of my office, I look out at the world though a veil of intricate, ivory lace.

Even my garbage pails look beautiful covered in snow.

Somewhere I have a copy of Whittier’s Snowbound. Have you read it?

It’s a long poem…but I’ll quote the beginning lines. It’s just how I feel:

The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east; we heard the roar
Of Ocean on his wintry shore,
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,
Brought in the wood from out the doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows;
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows;
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,
The cock his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent.

Unwarmed by any sunset light
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag, wavering to and fro,
Crossed and recrossed the wingëd snow:
And ere the early bedtime came
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
The old familiar sights of ours
Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden-wall, or belt of wood;
A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,
A fenceless drift what once was road;
The bridle-post an old man sat
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;
The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
And even the long sweep, high aloof,
In its slant spendor, seemed to tell
Of Pisa's leaning miracle.

It really is worth reading in its entirety if you have time...

Stay safe and warm if you're in the snow zone!