It's been snowing all day here in Philly, and as is the case with urban snow, the results are, at least during the day, less than spectacular. Trucks of iron and exhaust turn the snow instantaneously into unattractive mush. The last breath of fall is still lingering above the leaves in the trees, enough to melt the first layer of hesitant snow into a dripping blanket of sleet. The transparency of the snow, even when it accumulates, makes it look gray under the downcast sky.
And so it is that I long for clear, blue skies over canopies of pure white snow in wide-open spaces. Like in this sweet little poem by Miron Radu Paraschivescu:
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Zăpezi de Miron Radu Paraschivescu Acum, pe-ntregul câmp n-ai să citeşti Decât cuneiforme păsăreşti. Dar spre-a fi scrise, trebuia să vină Din cer, transport de linişti şi lumină. Atâta alb, atâta dăruire, Ca un ecou din nemărginire. Atâta alb, tot alb jur împrejur, Dând celor vii şi mai exact contur. |
Snow
by Miron Radu Paraschivescu Th’entire field has turned, from tree to tree, Into a bird cuneiform marquee. One needs, however, to properly write, A heavenly cargo of quiet and light. Such selfless white, such generosity, --A boundless echo from infinity. So white, so white is all around, so pure, Giving the living a finer contour. |
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