There’s something about the snow this year. It hasn’t announced itself with fury or force, but rather quietly, as though on tip toe.
It’s been the kind of winter where you’ll wake up in the middle of the night to see the flurries dance around your empty street, whispering quietly to yourself ‘snow.’
Sometimes it stays for a bit, becoming more forceful and angry. And sometimes it goes as quickly as it came.
But it always arrives the same. Quietly, unsuspecting, beautiful.
“I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and moving; then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.” Anne Sexton, in a letter to W.D. Snodgrass (November 28, 1958)