Buffy Silverman hosts today’s Poetry Friday Roundup at Buffy’s Blog .
The very first time I saw snow fall was on holiday as a child of eight. We had travelled by train to Kashmir, at the northernmost point of India, for our winter holidays. I remember being woken up early one morning as our train approached the station. Peering out of the window, I could see a sight I have now become both used to and exceedingly fond of – snow reflecting dawn’s light. All my memories of that holiday have to do with snow and what it looked like as it fell, and as it transformed all that it fell upon.
These days, I live in a snowy landscape for four months of the year. Although it presents all sorts of challenges and problems in this new, shepherd phase of my life, I am still enthralled with snow. Since the farm sits on a hill, I can see snowfall approaching from a distance, and that has to be my favorite winter experience of all. Sometimes, snowfall marches up the valley to us, sometimes it swoops down the back pasture, and sometimes it meanders over to us from the Green Mountains. Always, I am mesmerized.
Low clouds hang on the mountain. The forest is filled with fog. A short distance away the Giant trees recede and grow Dim. Two hundred paces and They are invisible. All Day the fog curdles and drifts. The cries of the birds are loud. They sound frightened and cold. Hour By hour it grows colder. Just before sunset the clouds Drop down the mountainside. Long Shreds and tatters of fog flow Swiftly away between the Trees. Now the valley below Is filled with clouds like clotted Cream and over them the sun Sets, yellow in a sky full Of purple feathers. After dark A wind rises and breaks branches From the trees and howls in the Treetops and then suddenly Is still. Late at night I wake And look out of the tent. The Clouds are rushing across the Sky and through them is tumbling The thin waning moon. Later All is quiet except for A faint whispering. I look Out. Great flakes of wet snow are Falling. Snowflakes are falling Into the dark flames of the Dying fire. In the morning the Pine boughs are sagging with snow, And the dogwood blossoms are Frozen, and the tender young
Purple and citron oak leaves.