I’m thinking of allowing myself some extra “blogging” time, but until then enjoy a poem from Grandma Malmberg’s scrapbooks.
P.S. I am ever so ready to move on to a spring poem.
Snow has a soft and quiet sound
As it comes falling to the ground.
For snowmen and snowballing time
It has a packing, smacking rhyme.
I hear it crunch, I hear it glide
When I go to the hill to slide.
But for the squeakiest squeak I know
There’s nothing like cold winter’s snow.
— Eleanor Dennis