Snow

Right now I'm waiting for the snow to dry from my hair.
It's clumping my hair into tendrils and snakey curls.
I like the thought that my hair now has been styled by the snow,
And that it is wet with something that fell from the sky.
From a cloud.
My head is always in the clouds, now it just feels more official.

The snow is falling in such mass quantities that I can hear it.
It's not the silence that you know of snow as it falls at night.
It's the lightest sound.
As it lands, it sounds like glass breaking at a very quiet quiet volume.

To play in snow,
no matter what age,
brings you back to your childhood.
I have always felt like a young girl again when I have stomped around in it.
Or to toss a handful in the air for the wind to catch.
To catch a snowflake on your tongue.
There is just something about it.
Something fun and carefree.
My friend, who's a grown-up (?), walked outside
and caught the contagious liberation from maturity that snow brings.
He laughed and threw some handfuls into the air, at me,
slipped, skittered to a stop, kicked mounds of fluffy snow,
twirled, giggled, yelled, threw his hands into the air
and had the biggest grin on his face,
for a moment, completely in the moment,
and in a moment of a memory,
of what it is to be a young kid again.

I love things that can do that to me.