I love snow.
I love that it sparkles.
I love how it turns on and off.
I love how it descends in slow motion.
I love how it sounds, crunching under my boot.
I love that my daughter likens it to mashed potatoes.
I love how one can long for a season never really known before.
I love how revealing one’s snow-giddiness in conversation separates the sheep from the goats.
I love how the world sounds, or doesn’t, when the snow has fallen for a time and the lawn is covered in mass and no one has come by in a while; when it feels as though the sky has unfurled over every corner of the neighborhood some long-stored-away quilt. Every yard a cot, tucked down tight for inspection.
Listen.
The world is padded in a way not so just an hour ago. Cotton. I cannot hear the neighbor kids. No howling mutts, no highway swoosh, no heat pump starts. And no news from across the seas.
A sabbath from their assumed cacophony.
I hear creation waiting stilly.
I love this sanctuary.
Comforter.
Snow.
