There is something absolutely magical about the first snowfall. The cold wet rain lazily turns to heavy, dreamy drops of fluttering snow. Slowly the dirt, grime, and bore of the dull November world is covered in a new layer of beauty. Pure white. Sometimes some scraggly branches still try to make an appearance and poke their heads out from under the soft white, as if in final protest. But finally the last flake falls, and the cruel branch is covered. The world is white.
Purity. Hope. Beauty. Joy. Renewal.
Standing under the snow as it comes down thickly... the silence of the gray flakes against the still grayer sky. Hearing each new, individual flake nestle among its antecedents. The distant scraping of snow shovels. Slush splashing. Branches bending, creaking under the weight of the snow. My hair sparkles as heavy drops form on the tips of my eye lashes. Mittens, boots, my purple coat.
Traipsing back inside, dripping as the last tenacious snowflakes vanish into the deep purple of my coat and leave miniscule wet dots behind as memories... rosy cheeks, cold nose, bright smile.
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