It Sifts from Leaden Sieves, a poem about snow by Emily Dickinson.
It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, —
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.
It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil
On stump and stack and stem, —
The summer’s empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, —
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.
Snow is a gift. Less words and more play this week.
Erika points at the clouds and tells me ” Mama, Daddy, Baby”. Oh, I adore the ingenuity of this creative interpretation of our natural world.
Platon’s grandfather kindly offers to change out tires for sled feet. The team of people who support Nature School extends into our whole community.
Not easy to negotiate steering this truck, and plowing driveways. Hats off to City of Richmond Crew to take care of our roads and driveways!
‘Till the next post,
Emily