I see gray stone walls covered with snow, like powdered sugar sprinkled on a cake, or two – They guard the forest of bare spindly trees, rising out of the icy wetlands. Birds sing a distant song. The piercing caw of a hawk startles me, in my tracks. I am jolted from my thoughts. Along the path, my eye catches a plastic bag, adrift in a thawing rivulet. Out of place, it’s pinned against the cement of a tiny culvert’s aperture. My mind returns to the faces, and places, strewn across my table, at home.
Another day, in a sheltered corner garden, a grouping of small green vegetation, pokes out of the earth. The stage is set, for the tiny players. Warm, and cold currents, exist at odds, with one another. Incompatible snow will come, and smother these sprouts that appear to be Eve’s snowdrops.
I have heard a legend, but I don’t know where it comes from, that the snow fell on Eve when she left Paradise. Out of the snow an Angel appeared to her, who took a handful of snowflakes, breathed on them, and let them fall at her feet, where they turned into flowers that did not grow even in Paradise. The Angel said, ‘This is in earnest to thee and to Adam that the sun will follow the snow.’ Then he vanished; and Eve, comforted, gathered her first snowdrops.
My snowdrops rest in waiting, for an Angel to come.
On Tiffany Creek 