The blades of grass have not yet bent their backs,
As soon enough they must in coming months,
But proudly bear these first few wisps of snow
As garlands, wreaths of honor, on their heads.
Mere hours later, when the night has passed,
The sunbeams frolic on the glistening white,
Amid the shadows of the trees, unheeding
Of the snowmelt-rivulets they make.
Another snowfall, once, under grey skies,
As I trudged slowly to and from my class,
Was to my spirit’s eyes made glorious
Despite the clouds that day, with sudden weight.
And so—though I grow maudlin—such a snow
Shall always make me think of you, dear friends,
Who by companionship lent happiness
And joy and even glory to that year.
We had a dusting of snow Monday evvening, and looking out at it that night, and then the next morning, prompted the image that began the above. And then my thoughts turned inexorably to another year’s first snow, which sparked my Untitled Metaphor #6.
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- “Paths of Memory” (shinecycle.wordpress.com)