How dreary thorns in flesh?
Russet hues in wintry light;
against dismal resting earth.
It’s here first snow appears;
scatters crystals among trees,
interrupts rioting leaves of fall.
Where comes storehouses of snow?
God binds them in unreachable homes;
unleashing flakes at His sovereign will.
A child sees first snow differently,
when mossy earth is laden white;
over, over, and over again anew.
Yet time will come, snow shall melt,
life’s bleakness fade; in last of days
and earth made new again, as snow.
“… no more death or mourning
or crying or pain, for the former
thing have passed away.”
My eleven year old granddaughter shared a slice of wisdom with me the other day. I told her it was going to snow. She said, “Its first snow!” with a tone of excitement. “It already snowed this year,” I simply replied. “But it hasn’t snowed for awhile,” said she. Looking at the bare landscape I saw tawny trees, exposed earth, and stately green pine’s lack of decorations. It was then I understood the importance of snow to her. Let’s be reminded, as we struggle through the season of celebration, whatever came to one’s door unwelcome will one day pass away. Like melting snow, will disappear and all will be made new by a sovereign God.
From solstice to equinox;
it crosses winter’s ray.
Admired the woodchuck,
on his groundhog’s day.
Yet, the busy muskrat
chases Eternal clouds away.
Grassy tower stands…
it stirs, shifts, and sways.
Till… last of days.
“As water disappears from the sea,
And a river becomes parched and dries up,
So man lies down and does not rise.
Till the heavens are no more,
They will not awake
Nor be roused from their sleep.”
Job 14: 11-12
We know so much about the groundhog, but it’s the muskrat that stays awake all winter at water’s edge munching on grasses. He’s a busy little thing piling up a tower of reeds and marsh debris to make his cozy abode. I’d say there’s poetry in that… just as you will find over at dVerse, as poets use their imagination with a form of the word “poem”.
I marvel at the snow mark designs, as I tromp my wooded landscape.
Hoof prints precisely etched, step-by-step, deep in drifts. A pattern of an elegant waltz scattered on forest hill. Talons too mingle like confetti in powdered earth. I wonder, did they dance a Irish Jig in the middle of winter’s moonlit night? Rabbit paws join the collage of artistry. Soft pose, graceful pirouettes, and tender plié of prints; long leaps of a ballet routine is that what I missed as I slept through arctic night?
Did they worship? Did they pray? Did they fellowship. Or did they bath in thankfulness beneath the Light which lit their path? Giant pines fenced in the event, banks of snow make still the bustle, and an open heaven of moonlight tumbled from the heavens. A flurry of activity occurred here last evening and in the morning light I can only dream.
Simple earth creatures
in midnight memories praise…
against pale, powdered snow.
Fuyu No Tsuki–Winter Moon–dVerse Haibun Monday at dVerse. What marks your snow?