Wednesday, October 23, 2002
First Snow
On and off, for the past two days, the first snowfall of the year. Small dry, crisp flakes gently sprinkling down from the sky as if hundreds of salt shakers were being rhythmically shaken over the Missouri River Valley. The flakes make a soft whispery sound brushing the dry leaves of the trees, like the rustling of tafetta skirts. Now there is a delicate, shivery dusting of white lightly coating the sidewalks and lawns, the hoods and roofs of cars. Like confectioner's sugar, except for the cold blue undertone of sparkle glinting up in hard bright points underneath the yellow haloes of streetlamps and in the headlights of passing cars.
The furnace keeps firing up in a deafeningly thunderous roar -- the iron floor grates rattling and clattering, hot air spewing up into my living room in loud burps and belches emanating from the very bowels of the house. It makes such an industrial racket that I have to shout a little bit in order to make myself heard on the phone. The cacophony is such that my Cat With the Neurasthenically Fussy Sensibilities goes into an apoplexy of disapproval each time the furnace comes on.
It is a good night to drink large steaming mugs of pungent ginger tea. It is a good night to eat hot and sour soup and black pepper chicken at the local China Trough. It is a good night to daydream over the dictionary, turning over the deliciously thin pages one by one, the soft rustle of turning paper not unlike the sound of the snow outside -- turning over the sounds of the words in one's mouth like round, sweet grapes. It is a good night to wear a Lapland-ish type of hat, with flappy ear flaps and dangling pom-poms, and a soft fleece lining. It is a good night to imagine a herd of reindeer to drive while wearing one's Lapland-ish type of hat. It is a good night for a cinnamon candle. And later, in the dark, it will be a good night to dream up an imaginary lover to pull into the spooned curve of one's body -- to stroke the white tender flesh of her belly, finger the delicate ridge of her navel, to smell the wispy hairs at the nape of her neck, and whisper one's secrets into her ear. Did you know . . . ? I wish . . . And then . . .
On and off, for the past two days, the first snowfall of the year. Small dry, crisp flakes gently sprinkling down from the sky as if hundreds of salt shakers were being rhythmically shaken over the Missouri River Valley. The flakes make a soft whispery sound brushing the dry leaves of the trees, like the rustling of tafetta skirts. Now there is a delicate, shivery dusting of white lightly coating the sidewalks and lawns, the hoods and roofs of cars. Like confectioner's sugar, except for the cold blue undertone of sparkle glinting up in hard bright points underneath the yellow haloes of streetlamps and in the headlights of passing cars.
The furnace keeps firing up in a deafeningly thunderous roar -- the iron floor grates rattling and clattering, hot air spewing up into my living room in loud burps and belches emanating from the very bowels of the house. It makes such an industrial racket that I have to shout a little bit in order to make myself heard on the phone. The cacophony is such that my Cat With the Neurasthenically Fussy Sensibilities goes into an apoplexy of disapproval each time the furnace comes on.
It is a good night to drink large steaming mugs of pungent ginger tea. It is a good night to eat hot and sour soup and black pepper chicken at the local China Trough. It is a good night to daydream over the dictionary, turning over the deliciously thin pages one by one, the soft rustle of turning paper not unlike the sound of the snow outside -- turning over the sounds of the words in one's mouth like round, sweet grapes. It is a good night to wear a Lapland-ish type of hat, with flappy ear flaps and dangling pom-poms, and a soft fleece lining. It is a good night to imagine a herd of reindeer to drive while wearing one's Lapland-ish type of hat. It is a good night for a cinnamon candle. And later, in the dark, it will be a good night to dream up an imaginary lover to pull into the spooned curve of one's body -- to stroke the white tender flesh of her belly, finger the delicate ridge of her navel, to smell the wispy hairs at the nape of her neck, and whisper one's secrets into her ear. Did you know . . . ? I wish . . . And then . . .
Posted by Artichoke Heart | 10:43 PM |
