After endless days of low gray clouds,
the sun emerged, and the world’s colors
sang like the flute of some Piped Piper.
I could do nothing but follow its song
as it led me down winding country roads
lined with bright snow, brought by the clouds
I had endured, and now thanked. It’s a mistake
to take weather personally, you know.
But if you must, see it as a teacher, a mirror,
an invitation, a gift. The Piper’s song, for instance,
carried me to this creek, so still, so silent
between its snow-dusted banks, so clearly
reflecting the trees that leaned as if to see
what was coming from upstream. I watched
blue shadows roll down the hill, their color
turning to sky as they slid across the waters
and saw how the brush and grasses were gold
in the afternoon’s low sun and how the snow
shimmered in its light. I left the Piper there
to sing its way down the creek. I got what
I came for. I understood.