Spring Snow

It was the kind of snow that follows a day of rain. Thick, wet and heavy. It blew in on lowering grey clouds, swirls and dervishes of white.

My iron horse cut a quiet path through blankets of purity, gliding on rubber wings. All around the snow fairies alternately kissed me with lips of spring water and slapped me with icey hands, chiding me for thinking winter had left us.

The dead stalks of last year's tall weeds bent gracefully as willows by a stream. Puddles in the street whispered gently like quiet brooks murmuring their own urban secrets. Over the litter and dirt, dead grass and bare soil was virgin white, loose and soft for all it's solid wetness, curving the countours like the fat on a pregnant woman's hips. Every twig, every branch, every doorknob, wire, car and fence, all likewise had their soft caps. Not one thing was left unsilvered. Rich as a fairyland ballroom through which my two wheeled horse and I nimbly danced.

Fat white whisps scudded swiftly below the leaden sky and orange street lights haloed in the trilling streams of snow. Moisture for my garden, water for my eyes, comforting beauty for my heart. My soul glided high above my rubber wheels and my little red blinky flashed contentedly through the night.

April 2003