Like feathers I find,sometimes, on walks and things, little transients so ethereal they silently sway in every random breeze.
Like picking up a cat and leaning forward into the merest touch of the silky flannel hair, brushed,just noticable, across the face.
So cliche, perhaps, to write about the first snow.
But how can I stop? When the sky is dropping white collars, worn like dour Russian women, on all the stones and crosses of the graveyard I pass by? The leaves and stones wear nightcaps.
So cliche, perhaps, to write about the first snow.
But how can I stop? When the window is opened, and the smoke from the pipes mix with the grandsome pale snow, and they all flow to the earth together.
How can I stop? When the last tang of autumn, with the first throb of winter, hold hands, and sing quietly for a few hours.
Star Soup 