To see the writing on the wall is to predict some potentially unpleasant outcome on the near horizon. But following a light snow that dusted my walkway recently,  I was treated to an artful message of sorts stitched across the stone by the backyard birds that become fast winter friends when we fill the feeder with their favorite black oil sunflower seeds.

So to see the writing on the walkway, perhaps, is an offering of magic and delight. 

The transformative power of snow can not be denied, from the feeling of peace that pervades as a light snow comes down at dusk, to the reverence and hush of waking to a freshly fallen sweep of snow bestowed upon one’s no-longer-familiar landscape.

 Snow can also stir fear or frustration and a sense of entrapment when it arrives in the form of storms and blizzards. It can keep us holed up inside, or lure us outdoors to experience this fleet miracle while it is here.

Every snowfall held the capacity to cast its spell over my beloved dog, Bu, triggering exuberant expressions of joyful puppy-like play well into his senior years. Even as winter faded into spring, he would seek out the dismal clumps of withering white stuff and engage in one last rollicking rumble, emerging with a self-satisfied grin that simply said, “Good!” 

Snow leads the poet to ply the page; it lures the painter to pick up the brush; it compels the photographer to capture with camera this ephemeral art before it disappears, as magically as it came. 

Snow

The black dog dives,
parts the frothy foam of
crystal and accumulation
drives the fluff of temporary 
isolation into faulty walls that
slither into avalanche,
fading to paths packed 
by sloshing boot and nimble paw.

The bird jots its hasty 
note in jigs and 
jags, in exclamation and
burst, across ephemeral 
powdered page 
blown out of existence 
by erasure, white slate 
swept empty.

The wind strikes the freshly fallen flakes
free from the stricture of sculpted form,
gathers a body load of frilly 
frosted air, twirls its catch to some
driven beat, flinging the white
feathers like a castoff heart,

the art of snow
is its art-less-ness.

© Sandy Long