[My tree, December 2008.]
But that was not the same snow,” I say. “Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards.*
snow in the mountains
rain along the coast
lamb to roast for dinner
remembering Christmases past
seeing old friends
a few presents under the tree
a fire in the fireplace
redwood trees and wreathes
visiting with the neighbors
tea and chocolates
[The ocean the day before the Solstice, December 2008.]
I hope today and every day still come is just grand.
I shall leave you with a bit from from Dylan Thomas’ A Child’s Christmas in Wales *:
Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
May your holidays be as close, as holy, as warm and lovely.