The Fresh Snows of Winter and a Story of Hemingway

There are few things as pure, wondrous, or beautiful as the first snows of winter. Yesterday I enjoyed a wonderful walk in the snow, and tonight I'm immensely enjoying the sight of snow falling gently outside my window.

I have to note that I very much enjoy all of the comments you're posting on the blog -- keep them coming. In one particularly flattering comment, my Grandmother compared me to Hemingway after I posted a recent poem.

This reminded me of one of my favorite stories about one of my favorite authors, Mr. Hemingway. A historian once found and photographed an elementary school journal entry written by Ernest Hemingway in the third grade. The teacher's prompt read "what do you want to do when you grow up?" The photograph of Hemingway's response is ingrained in my mind's eye. In grade school handwriting, the young Hemingway simply wrote:

"I want to travel and write."

Like Hemingway, I share an affinity for travel, adventure, the outdoors and the written word. I can only hope to live such a life of adventure and to someday become as artful and commanding of language as he.

While I am flattered by the comparison, there is one final distinction I would like to draw between myself and Hemingway; while he is an idol of mine, Hemingway decided to abruptly end his life with the cunning use of a shotgun. I on the other hand, will fight tooth and nail to hang on to every minute afforded to me in this lifetime so that I can continue to enjoy nights as beautiful as this.

And, in this spirit, I'll leave you with a poem I wrote about the fresh snows of winter.

Sam


The fresh white snows of early winter
fall softly and indiscriminately tonight.

The tender cold flakes awaken my soul,
conjuring memories of snow days, Christmas nights,
and the anticipation of walking in from the cold
to a bowl of Mum’s warm soup steaming on the kitchen table.

As I watch the falling powder,
my mind wanders past childhood and
through snowy evenings not so long ago;
escaping the night’s chill in steamy pubs,
drinking warm pints of stout,
conversing with close friends in good cheer.

After slowly imbibing our sweet malt
we’d pass through the pub doors and into the night air;
the peaceful flurries allow us to share
in an evening’s final embrace.

I sympathize for those in the southern climes
who never experience the life and comfort
found in the warmth of a woman’s cheek
as she slowly says goodnight
standing in the soft glow of a city on a snowy eve.

The fresh, white snows of early winter
fall softly and indiscriminately tonight.
The tender cold flakes warm my spirit and awaken my soul.
And, for that, I am grateful.