The town is full of snow sculptures. This one is mine. What caprice of wind and snow crystals, driven into my sheltered garden made this form? Layered and swirled, like thick cream or icing, fine and sugary, it sits transforming my old yard furniture into an untouchable beauty. There’s such a variety of line and texture that I could look at it for a long time. Is it just that ordinary spot where I sit and have a drink or entertain friends when it’s too hot or humid or dark to eat indoors?

In Spring I sit outside alone, in my warm jacket that shields me from the cool breeze. When the crocuses are just up or when the daffodils are still sheathed in that sap-scented green that means life, life again I sit out there alone. How many winters, how many summers?