ice song

I'm in the library at school, in an armchair by the rear window, waiting out a cancelled class. The ice storm yesterday left the world glazed, and I forgot my camera so I'm trying to focus it in words. Out the window, the tree-covered hills are frosted and dusted, blossoming with powdered-sugar blooms in a frozen wave of still music. The pine trees at the base are white on green, peppermint starbursts in stiff overcoats. The mist sits like a winter scarf on the hunched shoulders of the mountains, covering everything and blurring the divide between the sky and the hills. In the far corner, the stately brick school building is nearly hidden, iced the same color as the trees and nestled within them. Creation hums with beauty. 

It's raining now. But inside, the library is quieter than it has been all semester. I guess people stayed home, like I should have. But I'm glad to see this. I'm glad for the window and the poetry and the quiet. I've been given a gift.