Ghosts

I woke this morning to a white world: white trees, white ground, and white sky. Snow ghosts drifted between the trees, occasionally dropping from ghost heavy branches in a crystalline spray, swirling, dancing, flying, spinning like dervishes toward the windows and dissipating in a sparkling spray. The deck is mounded and peaked with white shimmering frosting as the sun peers thru the white and the winds push clouds out of the way so a robin's egg blue sky smiles between the gaps in mare's tail runners of billowing white. Peaks and mounds of frosting decorate the deck railing, mounded in enormous puffs on the planking, waiting to be tossed off the deck and onto the ground, disappearing in iridescent sprays to merge with the snow ghosts still flitting and drifting between the trees.

One thing is certain, I need to call the guy with the plow and begin the battle to remain mobile when I want to get out of here, although I feel safe and peaceful here in my snowy fortress, unwilling to disturb the ethereal quiet and venture down to town away from my winter fastness.

It has snowed for three days and I wish it had snowed harder yesterday, trapping my surprise visitor for a day or two to share the warmth and the silent beauty.

Stephen Bishop is serenading me with songs from the past, ballads that stir feelings I have pushed behind me, reminding me of so much I had forgotten and now clasp close. Jane Olivor has done her turn on the speakers with songs I love and songs I've not heard her sing before. Both are presents from my surprise guest yesterday. He also brought a handmade case for my ham radio equipment, a gift of exquisite workmanship and beauty that begs to be touched, caressed, and used. The wood feels like soft velvet and captures my eyes and fingers every time I look at it.

All the worries and confusion that bubbled within me just one day ago are gone like snow ghosts on the wind, borne away on the warm breath of joy and happiness, shared passions, and love.