3 01 2014

We spent all day yesterday watching the snow sift down like caster sugar, almost invisible individual grains, made each of maybe one stunted, too-rapidly-grown arm-spike of the six-sided confetti-starfish the lakes usually send to pile in glittered heaps like television soap flakes. After a morning lull of bright skies, grey-sheened in a winter palate of pale lilac and spoiled lemon cream, but sharply contrastive against the shadowy tree-boughs heavy with their collected burden, we’re back to grey on grey again, and more sifting, the barely discernible movement of the falling grains an optical trick against the heat-waver in the air above each chimney, where desperate gusts of heater-exhaust pour forth. It’s -8 this morning, the last weekday of Matt’s break, and we have, in theory, a thousand things we need to do, many of them somewhere else, but this doesn’t really feel like digging weather. Or, for that matter, even coming downstairs where the last two un-plasticked windows keep the floor at least ten degrees colder than the level above. I want an attic bedroom, an office by the window to watch the colors change from the snug of the whole house’s gathered heat, a novel to write, and four-hour baby naps. Too much to ask for, surely, but sometimes you have to dream.




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