by Anne-Margaret McElroy
Tuesday, March 19, 2002
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Droves of feathery pine boughs
swept the snowy drifts on the ground.
Places in the imagination that, unlike
the youths, elders have forgotten.
Laden with a coat of crystallized water,
it covered the branches Ďround,
imitating fifty foot guardians draped in
pure, clean, white starched cotton.
Beneath their arms were winding halls,
of thick, milky mortar,
and at night, under the light of the moon
the entire snow castle gleamed.
Like millions of marching diamonds,
dancing across Father Winterís
the serenity of a winterís night
wrapped my sleep in sweet dreams.