There are two ways to interpret a snowy day: an invitation to bundle up and stroll in the bracing air — or justification to grab a blanket, brew a cup of tea, and maybe wrangle a pet into lap napping.
To us, this poem implies the latter. We like to imagine Emily Dickinson, snug inside, face pressed up against the window, admiring a sparkling white blanket of snow that stretches across her field of vision.
The Wrinkles of the Road -
Unto the East again -
It deals Celestial Vail
Recordless, but for them -
Top image courtesy of Maragda Farràs/Unsplash.
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