When you live in an old house, (100 years old, with windows that seem even older, if that’s possible), you know the cold means business when you open the curtains in the morning, and you can’t see out through the frost and you can feel the chill from a foot back. Even so, there’s something about a frost-covered window that makes me glad it’s winter, and sends me shuffling off downstairs to plan a cozy day indoors, safe (somewhat) from winter’s reach. And just about the only thing I might miss about our ancient windows is the golden, sharp, light slanting in through the frost on the bitterest mornings.
Here’s a poem by Valerie Bloom called Frost. It’s so short I can’t possibly just give you a teaser, so I’m throwing all copyright caution to the wind and offering the whole thing this week!
Overnight, a giant spilt icing sugar on the ground,
He spilt it in the hedgerows, and the trees without a sound,
He made a wedding-cake of the haystack in the field,
He dredged the countryside and the grass was all concealed,
He sprinkled sugar on the roofs, in patches not too neat,
And in the morning when we woke, the world around was sweet.
Pretty. You can hear Valerie Bloom reading it over at Children’s Poetry Archive.
(photo © Sarah Klockars-Clauser for openphoto.net CC:Attribution-ShareAlike)