La Belle Neige
A beautiful snow is falling. At lunch in the café today, the proprietor ducked as a regular customer with impeccable aim threw a snowball into the midst of lunch service. Later, when the second one hit, he first yelled “pas de boules de neige dans le café” in a fruitless attempt to forbid snowballs to enter, then finally he put on his coat and went out to toss them around with the slightly rowdy crowd out front. We stayed inside, eating rabbit in mustard sauce, knowing that our turn to get all snowy under the collar would come soon enough.
Lest you think that the south of France is all
tile roofs and swimming pools,
and the sort of place where one is perpetually dressed for the beach, let me just say: nope. Pas du tout.
Coming home from the market today Shel pulled our wheeled shopping cart through the snowy yard,
past rosebuds that won’t make it,
lemons that need to be picked right away,
and the last of the peppers that, alas, should have been picked well before snowfall.
Cooking dinner tonight I glanced out the window into the darkness and did a double take: what the hail?
We didn’t have an arbre de Noël this year
but now, just a few days late, we have nature’s own Christmas tree.
It’s butt-freezing cold, the streets are slippery, the furnace has been running full speed ahead all day long, our dinner guests took a snow check, but I don’t care. I love snow, j’adore!