In the Meadow We Can Build a Snowman . . .

Or we can try. With the recent snowfall in my area (another six inches of goodness), I gave snowman building a shot. (See photos below. . . . What’s that? You’re having trouble seeing a white-on-white image? Perhaps I should title it White Cat in a Snowstorm.) But the snow was too powdery and refused to pack. According to an internet article by Karen Sassone, “The Physics of a Snowball,” the snow was too cold for snowman building. (Wrap your mind around that!)

   

Henry’s snowman is coming along much better. And small wonder. He’s a yeti. Snow is supposed to be his element. Though camouflage, sadly, is not. He thinks you can’t see him in this snow. Please humor him and say you can’t.

   

With such snowy days upon us here, my friend Sharon reminded me of the following poem by Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Mary Oliver, whose recent passing many of us mourn. Here’s a snippet of her poem. (You can find the whole poem here.)

First Snow

The snow
began here
this morning and all day
continued, its white
rhetoric everywhere
calling us back to why, how,
whence such beauty and what
the meaning; such
an oracular fever! flowing
past windows, an energy it seemed
would never ebb, never settle
less than lovely! and only now,
deep into night,
it has finally ended.

Penny over at LifeontheCuffoff has a post with another of Mary Oliver’s poems here.

Even with a temperature drop down in the teens and below (Fahrenheit), sunny winter mornings still seem magical. Everything looks sharper.

  

Since I was curious about why that is so, I Googled and found an article entitled, “Cold winter nights offer clearer night skies.” Well, guess that says it all. But here is a quote from that article:

[C]old air cannot hold as much moisture as warm air can. Hence, on many nights in the summer, the warm moisture-laden atmosphere causes the sky to appear hazier. By day it is a milky, washed-out blue, which in winter becomes a richer, deeper and darker shade of blue.

So there you have it! Still, I can’t help feeling like I’m in a Van Gogh painting when I contemplate the winter clouds and breathe the crisp, cold air

Title based on “Winter Wonderland” lyrics by Richard B. Smith. Photos by L. Marie.