Picnic, anyone?
My mom sent me the following poem
called “Snow” by Anne Sexton.
Too lovely not to share…
Snow,
blessed snow,
comes out of the skylike bleached flies.
The ground is no longer naked.
The ground has on its clothes.
The trees poke out of sheets and
each branch wears the sock of God.
There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
I bite it.
Someone once said:
Don’t bite till you know
if it’s bread or stone.
What I bite is all bread,
rising, yeasty as a cloud.
There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
Today God gives milk
and I have the pail.
