the night deposited

The night deposited another half-a-foot of snow, and my neighbor is valiantly shoveling the sidewalk.  There’s a desert–a lemon meringue pie, a blanc mange–what is a blanc mange? –which looks like the snow does now: softly peaked, luscious.  Am I thinking of a baked Alaska?  Why do cafes make those biscuity scones when they could make baked Alaskas? Di makes snow angels on top of her car, a very good idea.  The plow came early, but midway, the plowman (not ploughman) stopped, got out of his cab, and walked down the alley.  Why did he do that?  To tell someone to move a car?  To stretch his legs?  After a while he came back, and continued to plow the street. Now the sun is illuminating the large windows of the house on the corner.  Because it reflects sun and sky, it looks like one of those gold etched tumblers from Russia.  Now the sun is illuminating the bushes.  The lavender is completely covered, and most of the sage. My one rose plant bravely remains.  Will there be roses this summer?  My niece likes to pour maple syrup over snow and make –what would it be?–an Italian Ice?  She likes making snow angels, too.  My second cup of coffee calls.  Is this what Buddhists mean by being in the present moment, recording, noticing what is present?


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