Awaken to the silence of a snow song
gentle hush on the wind still speaking
of inches in drift and horizontal painting.
White with winter
and dreams on thunder hill.
Still go there in the back seat of child sleep.
Sledding to the rumble.
And I haven't even looked out the window.
Sun still sleeps in clouds of inspiration.
I'll don my smock and easel.
Paint in muted shades for the cardinal
on pine bough yet to light.
Water color before its frost blooms to crystal.
And I haven't even opened my eyes.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Sometimes you know it's a good day — before it even begins.