There were no glad tidings in the days bygone. Someone whispered to me that it is snowing back home in Kashmir. Ah, how I love the divine confetti. I wish to run in the snow meadows, stretch my arms wide, look at God, close my eyes and let the flakes kiss me.
I miss the pastures. The snow hanging onto the pines.
Cummings waxes eloquent: The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches. I agree.
Regular posts to follow.