The snow piles on hoods of cars, front porch furniture, pots filled with dormant living things and the beginnings of crocuses.

Writing tells me it’s worth it to remember these details and the way air smells different in the white, the way sounds echo like drums off tree trunks and the sides of houses.

Writing makes paths through the drifts, sometimes in the shuffle of small boots, sometimes tromping heavy-footed, mastering the mound.

Writing is bundling up in words and then shedding them dripping wet, hanging them out over the heat vents on the old laundry drying rack to see what you’ve got there.

Like playing in the snow, writing is effort, and it is joy.

It is quiet solitude like a lone brown bird on a branch, and it is frolic and snowballs against faces and windows, and it is community.

Writing is scooping frosty mounds, tasting to see if it is the same as you remember. Writing is squealing at the new day’s beauty and knowing the freedom of this, and it is all kinds of glittery miracle when the sun hits flecks like diamonds.

And sometimes writing is holy abandon, as we sled down the hill, words and joy flying all over the place:

“Whhhheeeeee!” we yell. “Woooohhoooooo!”

I know some of my midwest and east coast friends are so over the snow, but here in Portland we’re just getting our first taste, and it’s so good. Joining with Lisa-Jo Baker and the Five Minute Friday community with today’s writing, inspired by the view out my window and the prompt: WRITE. Come join us?

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