Friday

Bruge Lace



These smallest flakes of snow have each to themselves a foot or more of space in which to make their fall on this late November day.  As crisp as delicate as a Bruge lace, they express the individual uniqueness possible in all things perfectly.  What had seemed no more than an over-used and tiresome metaphor has been freshened, has been made new by winter's early hand.

Snow.  Who sees the first flake?  Who would measure its twirling fall from cloud to ground?  And who, maddened by metaphor, would look for a twin? Not me.  On my way from the woodpile to the waiting warmth of house, I stand for a minute outside in the cold.  A flake falls on my face and tells me all I need to know today of snow.