Of Friday, 8th December 2017

A Prose Poem

dec 8th 2017.jpg
“Sneaux” – if you look closely, you can see the snowflakes falling. ❄️


I saw frost first, sprinkled on the tips of the rigid grass blades through the glass pane of my bedroom window; there was a blur of white under a grey sky, and I was drawn toward the door in my too-soft socks and winter flannel, but no jacket or shoes. The door whined open to prickly air that bit my nose and sent my body into its first shock. The second shock—cotton piles on the Grand Marquis and on the Ford; on the wooden birdhouse littered with sunflower seeds; and floating on the wind’s breath—its descent nearly slowing time’s steady hand. My too-soft socks failed to comfort my too-frigid toes, so quickly I dressed to run about the wonderland for which I felt so blessed; never do we see Monsieur d’Hiver avec sa perruque en poudre.

Fresh snowflakes performed pirouettes and leapt past each other in a race to the warm earth. Crystals rested on my hair in perfect mountain-peak fashion. A rabbit hopped quickly through the slushy yard toward the fluffy squirrel digging furiously for his pecan buried under the ice—the hare bounded so quickly that her cotton ball tail and ski-like thumpers were all that I could spy. But the most beautiful scene was the husband cardinal, who donned his finest, brightest crimson suit, waiting patiently on the bird feeder to gather breakfast. He fluttered up into the silver maple, whose leaves were only a summer dream, as my shoes crunched and slopped through the frozen grass and sloshy puddles.

I wished to stay home from work to kindle my Christmas Spirit like a fireplace, to spend special time with my family in such a breath-taking, rarely-witnessed phenomenon. The snowfall grew so heavy that it forced my eyes closed—then the sleet returned to ruin the snow’s ballet. Before long, my hands became so cold, and warm coffee lured me back inside to leave this powdery paradise forever in memory.


❤ Michelle