new year, new snow

I can hear the snow cracking and falling in glittery heaps off the neighbor's roof. The sun is hitting the icicles on the house up in Tahoe, I am in after three days of skiing sitting happily in a beautiful sweater that my grandmother knit for me and wathcing sun on snow. I was in Sierraville at my aunt's house hiking with the dogs in the snow on January first, and came across the cab of an old Ford truck, strewn across the snow. It was followed shortly by a half-buried bathtub, washing machine, and mattress springs, and extroardinarily picturesque. I wished I had a ballgown and chic wool jacket so I could do a fashion shoot.

Frozen basin,
in a field of snow,
who left you here to die?
Never to be warm again,
never to hold laughing children,
tired mothers,
to soothe the feet of a long days' work.
Still, you seem cheerful,
with a white cheerfulness,
and the washing machine will keep you company.