This is Easter week and it has been snowing now for three days, almost continuously.
The first day, flakes were saucers, clumps of freezing condensation with intermittent sleet, then as temperatures fell, there was a white-out of blown snow. Soon, the world was a cupcake iced in white.
Temperatures fluctuated between the mid-twenties and thirties. At times snow piled up, then near mid-day, there would be a brief melt. But as shadows grew long and darkness fell, more blowing snow coated the ground.
We watched some March Madness, thankful that we still have power. I sewed colorful things. He worked on taxes. By night, we made a fire in the fireplace, ate comfort food and hoped to see the moon. The night was black, though, clouded and thick, deep in moist cold, brightened only by the house lights on snow. To the fire, we added damp logs that burned red and popped in the fireplace like gunfire.
By morning, a dense blanket has silenced the world. Birds that sang last week hide muted within the heavy-laden branches of evergreens and rabbits huddle underneath. Frogs have gone back into soundless hibernation in the rocks around the pond. There is a break in the flurries and the humble daffodils seem to smile.
The porch rockers are still, ghostly observers to notice the white banks across the valley, the visibility of the forest floor and its contours.
Again as the temperature drops, flurries swirl. The wind howls and we pull up an extra blanket for another night of snow.
The third day breaks in a solid white churning fog. Hold out your hand. You can touch it, taste it. The wind has blown some snow away, but there is more to come.
I am thinking of cherry blossoms, of dogwoods and rhododendron. This is a different kind of beauty, a different kind of Easter preparation.
