"The Snow Storm"
Clue #1: I am a character from a famous Children's story (which is also a movie)Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,Seems nowhere to alight: the whited airHides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feetDelayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sitIn a tumultuous privacy of storm.Around the radiant fireplace, enclosedCome see the north wind's masonry.Out of an unseen quarry evermoreWe received our first snowfall of the season yesterday. It was predicted, but I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want to believe that the scurrying chipmunk, stuffing his cheeks with helicopter seeds meant anything more than that he was late for an appointment; didn't want to believe that the brigade of cows, lined up awaiting the afternoon milking, not needing to be called in from the fields meant anything more than that they were early for once; didn't want to believe that the rains would turn into snow, even as it happened before my eyes. And then the snow fell down and down and down, and stuck, and this morning I awoke to a wonderland of ice-bowed trees covered in dustings of white; awoke to slippery tread and a reminder about the salt/sand mix to be sprinkled on paths. "I've seen early snow likes this before, it DOES NOT mean we are going to have a bad winter," said the Farm's weatherman, and I want to believe him; want to believe that we will awake one January morning with just as much astonishment, we will look out our windows and see a sunny 70 degree day...But until that (as if that could) happens, I am looking forward to this weekend; Halloween is my favorite holiday, and this weekend also marks my birthday, so we are having a costume/bday party at B1 & B2's house on Saturday. All the Farm staff and volunteers have been invited, provisions have been bought, costume is together. Can you guess who I am going to be?Furnished with tile, the fierce artificerCurves his white bastions with projected roofRound every windward stake, or tree, or door.Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild workSo fanciful, so savage, nought cares heFor number or proportion. Mockingly,On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,A tapering turret overtops the work.And when his hours are numbered, and the worldIs all his own, retiring, as he were not,Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished ArtTo mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,The frolic architecture of the snow. --Ralph Waldo Emerson
Also, wanted to welcome new follower, Natassia; it is always nice to get new readers--please ENJOY!