My farm sleeps under a blanket of snow. Not even a breath of wind whispers in the unnatural silence.
Pine branches bend beneath the weight but the bird houses stand straight as sentinels.
The pasture stretches beyond the creek to merge with the gray sky.
In the Pasture
On the first day of snow, when the white curtain of winter
began to stream down,
the house where I lived grew distant
and at first it seemed imperative to hurry home.
But later, not much later, I began to see
that soft snowbound house as I would remember it,
and I would linger a long time in the pasture,
turning in circles, staring
at all the crisp, exciting, snow-filled roads
that led away.
by Mary Oliver
began to stream down,
the house where I lived grew distant
and at first it seemed imperative to hurry home.
But later, not much later, I began to see
that soft snowbound house as I would remember it,
and I would linger a long time in the pasture,
turning in circles, staring
at all the crisp, exciting, snow-filled roads
that led away.
by Mary Oliver
Wild grapes display a winter cloak of white.
Out of the bosom of the air
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bore,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,.Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bore,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,.Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
