In the midst of all my to and fro'ing the last couple of days, I did manage to take my own advice last night and slow down. Yesterday was one of my favorite poet's birthdays, so Emily Dickinson and I hung out by the fireplace last night, selecting our own company and shutting the door to the world.  It was a much needed respite--a room lit by the soft glow of my Dickens Village and the fireplace, a warm Christmas blanket wrapped around me, my sweet Willow curled up in my lap, and the lovely words of Amherst's poet to warm my soul.

Snow

It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,

It fills with alabaster wool

The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face

Of mountain and of plain, —

Unbroken forehead from the east

Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,

It wraps it, rail by rail,

Till it is lost in fleeces;

It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, —

The summer's empty room,

Acres of seams where harvests were,

Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,

As ankles of a queen, —

Then stills its artisans like ghosts,

Denying they have been.

Photo credits

Thank you, Emily, for a calm and peaceful night.  You never disappoint.

Have a peaceful Wednesday!