When winter unfurls his icy robe, and snowbirds gather chest to chest, all the world upon my street enters into a Sabbath rest.
A white-capped sea has risen on the wooded lawn whipped by gust-blown sails of sparkling frost. The cars float where drives used to be, their tires and rims out of sight. No one ventures away from home, and business to a stand-still comes.
Two shirts, some boots, and a hood I am dressed, and then my husband zips me into my coat, and like a child I raise my hands, and he pulls in place the thick-fingered gloves.
I follow him into the edge of white, and then I lose him from my sight. Lost am I, and turn and turn, bewitched by icicles like jeweled trim.
Magnificent cardinal, fiery red.
Frosted whelk and whipped cream dolloped oyster shells.
An open gate to garden of snow.
A powdered bench.
Far below our feet, by faith we believe, spring slumbers in snoozing bulbs of daffodils. Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of all sound and hearing. No chore calls. No task pulls. No gentle employment must be done.
We are as adrift, as filled with wonder, as free as we will ever be. . .this Sabbath Snow.
He says to the snow, ‘Fall on the earth,’. . .So that everyone he has made may know his work, he stops all people from their labor.
~ Job 37:7