The snow comes in the morning. Soft, big flakes like clusters of weightless coconut. But this is tropical thinking and I should turn my attention from the shift of autumn into winter in Vermont. We are not ready for snow: the days have been too warm and just last night the air was balmy and sixty degrees Farenheit. Some of the roses are still in bloom, and we have not had the courage to put away all the outdoor tables and chairs, or the few remaining clay pots. Somehow I imagine that there will be one last lunch outside made from a harvest of bitters greens, turnips, carrots, little pearl onions along with a glass of our own rough red wine. This is faulty thinking.
The snow is accumulating. A heavy gray sky descends. The air is cold, damp, and wicked. I have a headache, the plunging barometric pressure sending me into a dark mood and in search of relief. Outside, a few valiant rose blooms banish black thoughts about this weather. The dusting of flakes on the petals and still green leaves bring to mind a world made of so many jewels.
--Deirdre
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