Thursday, February 16, 2012


Yesterday, I awoke to this scene below our mountain:
Each tree, each twig, encased in ice. See the dark line where the white and dark meet? The ice formed where there was fog, below. Up above, we are ice-free. The fog still sifts among the icy trees like the thinnest scarf, drifting to earth.
As we drove from the house, the ice pellets crunched beneath our tires. A little warmth, and they all fall.
We had tea at Hunter's. She orders the most amazing tea napkins on the internet. Are they called rice napkins? They are thinner than thin. I think they might melt in your mouth. And they're always adorable to look at.
A sunflower
See how thin? Gossamer-like. Fog-like.
I find it very difficult to use the napkins. How can one take beauty, and wipe it across one's messy mouth? It seems an affront to beauty. I carry it gingerly, bring it home, take its picture. I imagine I will put in a book, to discover later. Yes, I just slipped it into a large tome called The Literature of England.
Thank you, God, for beauty.

1 comment:

  1. How fabulous: "below our mountain". Such beauty in your words alone! I drove all rond Newtownabbey from place to place and thing to thing today with a thundering headache from the thundering low skies. I am breathing your crisp mountain air now!


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