Less Than 0

At less than zero, the snow drifts off the tree branches, an endless scattering of glitter that never seems to reach the earth. At less than zero, the sunlight pours with unapologetic brightness through the glass, spilling across the kitchen floor. At less than zero, the sky is white. The trees and shadows stark streaks of contrast, a black and white image, still but for the drifiting snow, the tiny chickadee.

At less than zero, the kids wear jammies all day, wrapped in blankets like mummies, laughing at Curious George and asking with voices full of doubt and hope if they might have just one more cup of hot cocoa. And some marshmallows? At less than zero, I sit by the fire with a book or a magazine, with another cup of tea or an early glass of wine. At less than zero I find the cats sleeping in baskets of laundry or under the bed quilts or in the chilly splash of sunlight on the floor.

At less than zero, I dream of diving into the lake at dusk on a hot summer night. I dream of children rushing out the door, forgetting their shoes, their bare arms and legs all motion. At less than zero, the artist inside me is awake and ready. And so I write and imagine and pour over cookbooks and then remember it is too cold to go out to the store. At less than zero, I put on the tea kettle, go back to the window and let the glittering snow and laughing children and winter light work their own magical artistry.