For over a week, weathermen predicted an
inevitable snowstorm, used words like
blizzard and ferocious until the sky finally
made good on the threat.
In Groveport, yardsticks vanished under
twelve inches of white. The town came to
a standstill. For seven days, I have not
crossed the threshold. At Level 3, the law
says roads belong only to plows and sirens.
I am not restless having to stay inside. There is
sanctuary in being marooned. I write by
the warmth of the hearth, while the world
takes on an alabaster sheath.
I look beyond the window, see cars on the road
buried so deeply it looks like rows of
white graves.
Now, the only pulses outside are small ones:
birds and squirrels navigating drifts with a
frantic, shivering grace.
Meteorologists offer no hope for a thaw.
The mercury will stay below zero for at
least the next week, locking us away from
an environment that appears as if a cosmic
design artist has painted every surface the
color of cotton.
Even now, the descent of snow continues,
elegant as lace, soft as kitten fur, and I am
reminded that even the most frantic world
can be hushed into a masterpiece of
irresistible beauty.
