Calligraphy

Today I'm all cozied up with my cat (he's thankfully home, fever-free from the animal hospital--quite a scare this week!) and my Ink & Peat moss and mint candle (thank you sisters), watching a fresh dusting of snow fall while I write. (View from my window, below.) I've been writing forever, and I've always loved it. When I was 6 I started a "chapter book" about a talking Christmas tree and her family. I would lovingly rewrite the chapters I thought were the best, changing bits here and there until I truly believed my childish prose was a masterpiece. I'm from a family of writers, so it all feels very right and natural--even if, like many writers, I suffer an occasional bout of self doubt (or more often, agony). Of course my Grandma Anita readily encouraged my desire to find my voice through writing. She was an excellent story teller.

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This morning I couldn't locate this poem in any of my grandma's books, so my dad recited it while he flipped through looking for it. I thought that was pretty special. The sun is starting to come out and the snow is slowing slightly. I love that soft, muffled sound the snow makes when it falls.

Calligraphy

The snow has come again.

I cannot sweep the porch

for printed on the white

I find small tracings

of a hopping bird. Erase

such elfin artistry? Not I.

Could you? Or you?

-Anita Hamm