Transition

Unbroken snow, sparkling in the afternoon sun, smooth, soft, deep, perfect has lain over the lawn four days straight, untouched by boot or glove. There stands no snowman, fortress, cache of snowballs. There has been no snowball war, trail-blazing, fox and geese. The unblemished white carpet reveals no snow angels, sled tracks, tunnels, or caves. No great mounds of snow or giant snowballs at tall as me.

At what point in my life did I become satisfied to admire the snow through the window?