"Poets try to uncover words to describe what was never ours to describe. As if our feeble human words were worthy to give light to one Sunday afternoon's snow. Moments pass without the hint or glisten of the whiteness from heaven. The weatherman keeps telling us that it will happen, sooner than later. But, I am content to keep my heart, mind and soul set on whether or not God allows. Moments turn to hours. We go to church, we pray and listen to the voice of God. Later, Grandma serves up a marvelous meal fit for family, not worthy for kings and magistrates. Friends descend upon her household. Hospitality multiplies and coffee, dessert and laughter are in abundance. Then at last the spots appear outside of Grandma's windows. At first it appears that God is lightly and only momentarily dusting the neighborhood. But the whiteness lingers for a couple of hours. It decides to stick around for a while. The purity of the color transformed the backyard into someplace else. Ironically, the weatherman sits back in his chair, with a grin on his face, once again proud of himself. Later that afternoon, I found out that Grandma asked God for the snow, not for herself or anyone else, but for me."