Snow. Falling. Down.

That’s how Vincent speaks, one word, full stop, then the next. And no more than three words in a row. But we understand each other, and that’s a constant revelation: we look at each other in utter astonishment several times every day.

So it’s snowing again, very hard, much much snow. It’s been snowing since early December. You’d think we lived on a Great Lake the amount it’s snowed this winter. I’m almost beyond the whining to simply being stunned — how much can it snow in one winter anyway?

Chase Twichell, soon-to-be-former publisher of Ausable Press, is a phenomenal poet in her own right, and her collection, The Snow Watcher, has my snow poem of choice:

Snow

Every day it snows an inch or two,
muting the music in the pines.
Old music.

Snow holds back the dawn–
an extra minute of lying here
while the self sleeps on.

Walking home after midnight,
two miles to go. The snow
is telling a story two miles long.

Dead trucks for sale in the yards.
New trucks plough the roads
of the dying towns.

If ever I flee to wilderness to die,
it will be to snow. Thus this snow
at bed time comforts me.