Somehow when a poet writes about it, even relentless snowstorm-after-snowstorm takes on its own beauty: Here is Dylan Thomas, writing in A Child’s Christmas in Wales:
“Our snow was not only shaken from whitewash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely white-ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunderstorm of white, torn Christmas cards.”
No wonder, year after year after year, we sit by the fireside on Christmas Eve and read it aloud with friends or acquaintances or strays and connect to the snows of yesteryear. And so we did this year, but after the latest two-day session of monster snowstorms, I felt the need to connect once again, so here it is. Don’t just look at the words; even if you feel a little foolish (go into a room by yourself if so) and say them, relish them, out loud. It helps.
(If it intrigues you, and you want the whole delightful prose-poem, you can download it on line.)