By Emily Dickinson
The Snow that never drifts —
The transient, fragrant snow
That comes a single time a Year
Is softly driving now —
So thorough in the Tree
At night beneath the star
That it was February’s Foot
Experience would swear —
Like Winter as a Face
We stern and former knew
Repaired of all but Loneliness
By Nature’s Alibi —
Were every storm so spice
The Value could not be —
We buy with contrast — Pang is good
As near as memory —
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There were a couple of inches of snow on the ground when we woke up, and although we only got about four inches total, we had snow falling most of the daylight hours. Since everything in the area was closed, I didn't get any further than a quarter of a mile from my house. Paul worked from home and we watched Endeavour together in the afternoon.
We had soup for lunch and veggie burgers for dinner because it seemed like that kind of a day, and in the evening we watched the penultimate episode of this season of The Masked Singer, in which it turned out everyone was right in the first place about one person. Because I never got out and was boring, this is all I have to show for my Wednesday:
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