The snow wipes out the writing of the year;
Its swift erasers softly, surely pass
Across the hieroglyphics of the grass
And clean the slate of summer, spear by spear.
Where was a tale of gardens there is now
A smudged and undecipherable scrawl;
And where illumined lettering of fall,
A dim-inked outline of an austere bough.
The hills depicted on the sky are blurred
As blackboards hid behind a cloud of chalk,
And fast as feet of pigeons write a word
It is obliterated from the walk.
An ancient picture script alone remains -
A panorama etched on windowpanes.
from Kitchen Sonnets by Ethel Romig Fuller
Now you might be laughing, but this is our first snow of the year.
I picked the daffodils in my garden yesterday,
then woke to snow this morning.
I am loving it because it is beautiful,
but also because we can still get out and about.