Indian Summer is over, and really, that's okay. The ski resorts are opening in a few weeks. Snow is white gold for all of us living in ski resort towns. So in honor of the white stuff, here's a lovely poem for your enjoyment: "Snow" by Elizabeth Tibbetts
The old, blue-eyed woman in the bed
is calling down snow. Here heart is failing
and her eyes are two birds in a pale sky.
Through the window she can see a tree
twinkling with lights on the banking
beyond the parking lot.
Lawns are still green from
unseasonable weather. Snow
will put things right; and sure enough by four
darkness carries in the first flakes.
Chatter, hall lights, and the rattle of walkers
spill through her doorway as she lies there--
ten miles (half a world) of ocean between her
and her home island.
She looks out from a bed the size of a dinghy.
Beyond the lit tree, beyond the town, open water
accepts snow silently and, farther out,
the woods behind her house receive the snow
with a faint ticking of flakes striking needles and
dry leaves--a sound you would not believe
unless you've held your breath and heard it.
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