words about winter, stitched together with yarn
Outside my studio window, the snowflakes are blowing up. Some waft in lazy circles, others zoom with purpose. Occasionally, when the wind catches a drift on the edge of the roof, a thick shaft will shoot straight down, like the tail of a comet.
I find myself wishing for a splendidly cushioned window seat, a fireplace, steaming coffee in a thick buffalo china mug. A slab of thick, chewy, artisian bread spread with honey butter, a slow cooker in which to make comfort food. Cinnamon rolls like my mom used to make, dense with raisins. Flannel pajamas and socks with snowflakes stitched on them. It's almost enough to make me wish I could knit or do needlepoint or something. Almost.
In twenty minutes or so, the wolf and I will be out there, listening to the whiskery, whispery fall of snow, to the squeaking crunch of my heavy winter boots on the path . It is cold, but not nearly as cold as it was yesterday. Yesterday's cold was almost unbearable, the kind that frosts your eyelashes and unites your tiny nosehairs in icy protest when you dare to breathe in deeply or snuffle back the hot drip coursing down the back of your throat.
I feel quiet and full. Hushed. There is a dull, leaden ache in my arm where I got my flu shot yesterday. I still can't figure out if the animal I saw hunting mice in the park was a coyote or a wolf. I'm not sure there are wolves in these parts, aside from my wolf, who is not really a wolf at all. Just pretending. I have two small design projects I must get done this afternoon and laundry to do. My favourite song right now is Lack of Color by Deathcab for Cutie. I really want to stand beneath a giant redwood for some reason. The tip of Finn's right ear smells like the clementine I ate for breakfast. There are few things quite as wonderful as the tip of a dog's ear.
It is time to go walking. And the snowflakes outside my window continue to blow up to the sky.