* * *   Moon Puts Last Touches on Snow Float * * *   
            *               *     *         *               *                    *

Sprinkle a little fairy dust across an ocean so still,
think its waves have  paused to reflect on each other’s
brilliance.  December has iced their night-navied
peaks white and silver, then wrapped them tenderly
in lavender tissue.  Draped with diamonds, even
jack pines and split-rail fences take pride as the last 
rays of a dying moon reach down to silhouette them. 
All in this whisper-soft blanket  of silence, precious 
silence.  Let’s tiptoe out and make angels, shall we?
Forget that this gift arrived with strings.   Worries  
like black ice, slick bridges, misplaced gloves, a clutsy
defroster, and whether there is any rock-salt left. 
We can fret later later about ending in the jaws of life.
Check-late-what-another-bill-what-if-flights-are-
cancelled-how-long-will-school-be-closed-oh, no-the-
meeting//dentist/report/playdate/bread, lettuce, firewood/
anyone remember if that neighbor returned the snow
shovel?  We are calling a halt.  We are  putting a stopper
over Rush and a damper on noise and taping blindfolds
over these robots’ blinking bloody eyes, and rolling up
in quiet to dream.  Later, we’ll clear new circles in
the frost on this glass and send up thanks for this delight.  
But for now, we will Be in the Moment.  Luxuriate
in a glow usually reserved for lovers strolling dazedly
down a shimmering beach, and float-- just float -- on
silvered and lavendered  froth.   Seeing only,   feeling
only, this.     Just this.                      Just  this.                                   
      

                         (c)  Phyllis Jean Green, January, 2011
                                      All Rights Reserved