When they said snow they meant snow

I know they said that snow was coming, but I was so entirely buried in work that I raised my head just long enough to say, Snow. Oh. Okay. Snow. Then buried my head once again.

I just woke up. I just looked out the dark, snow splattered windows. I saw the porch rail toppled with at least two feet of white, the porch sculpted with drifts of perhaps four feet, the blue back of the car weighed down with white.

The word "snow" has an entirely new meaning now, in the Beth Kephart lexicon. The likes of this I've never before seen.

I wish I had a working fireplace.

NOTE: This photograph was taken at the 2005 Venice Biennale. I've been waiting for a moment to use it. It symbolizes me, in my private clothes, submerged by work.

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