"The Snow Angel" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“What we shape with joy leaves its mark, even after it’s gone.”
The blizzard arrived before dawn, not suddenly, but with a steady resolve—as if January itself had decided to make a statement. Wind pressed its face against the wee cottage, rattling the windowpanes, piling snow into sculpted drifts that erased fences, paths, and all evidence of yesterday. The world beyond the glass was no longer landscape but motion: white upon white, restless and alive.
Liam stood at the bay window, coffee warming his hands, watching the storm write and rewrite the same sentence across the yard. There was a time when such a blizzard would have felt like confinement. This morning, it felt like an invitation.
He layered himself in wool and flannel, pulled his hat low, and opened the door. The wind answered immediately, sharp and breathless, filling his lungs with cold so pure it almost burned. Snow stung his cheeks. He laughed—an old, quiet laugh—and stepped out anyway.
The yard was untouched. No tracks. No signs of life. Just a wide, flawless page.
He waded into the deepest drift and, without ceremony, lay back. The snow cradled him, yielding with a soft sigh. He swept his arms and legs slowly, deliberately, listening to the storm roar above him while the earth held him below. For a moment—just one—he felt suspended between sky and ground, between effort and surrender.
When he stood, brushing snow from his coat, the angel revealed itself: wide wings, a flowing body, perfectly imperfect. Already the edges were softening as fresh snow drifted down, as if the storm itself were trying to claim it.
Then Liam noticed something else.
From the far edge of the yard, a line of delicate tracks approached—not bold like deer, not heavy like bear, but quick and curious. A squirrel had paused nearby, its tail marks etched faintly in the powder. Beyond that, the hopping signature of a rabbit looped close, then veered away. Overhead, a blue jay burst from a pine, scattering snow in a sudden, winged flourish that left its own brief, accidental imprint beside the angel.
Liam smiled.
Perhaps they didn’t make snow angels the way humans did—but they left their marks all the same. Proof of presence. Proof of play. Proof that life moved through even the fiercest weather, leaving fleeting signatures behind.
Soon the angel would vanish. So would the tracks. But for now, they shared the same moment, the same white breath of the world.
As Liam turned back toward the warmth of the wee cottage, the blizzard howled on—but something gentle remained behind. Not the angel itself, but the knowing that beauty does not resist the storm.
It dances with it.
* * * * * * * * * *
Although the temperatures are mild for January, the cold still carries a certain authority. Darkness presses close outside the window, while inside the wee cottage, lamplight and warmth hold steady. The contrast brings a deep sense of contentment—of peace earned, not assumed.
An Albinoni oboe concerto drifts through the room, its notes slow and tender, as if aware of the snow falling beyond the glass. I think of blizzards and snow angels, of how poetry often gathers there—where power meets playfulness.
Poems about snow angels speak of fleeting joy and lasting memory, of storms that erase and moments that endure. Snow becomes a lover, a guide, a sacred canvas—briefly bearing witness to something made with no intention of permanence. Snow Angels by Poetic T comes to mind: a wish pressed into the earth, held for a moment, then transformed.
And then my thoughts drift to a line I read yesterday, from Dr. Wayne Dyer:
“You can make your life into a grand ever-evolving work of art. The key is in your thoughts, the wondrous, invisible part of you that is your spiritual soul.”
Isn’t that what the snow angel is?
An act not meant to last—yet meaningful because it was made.
A gesture shaped by joy, not outcome.
A creation born of the soul, however briefly it remains visible.
May this moment, this day, this life be a grand ever-evolving work of art.
Not perfect. Not permanent.
But sincere. Playful. True.
And so, with coffee warm in hand and snow whispering outside the window, I begin this wonderful day.
~Wylddane
The blizzard arrived before dawn, not suddenly, but with a steady resolve—as if January itself had decided to make a statement. Wind pressed its face against the wee cottage, rattling the windowpanes, piling snow into sculpted drifts that erased fences, paths, and all evidence of yesterday. The world beyond the glass was no longer landscape but motion: white upon white, restless and alive.
Liam stood at the bay window, coffee warming his hands, watching the storm write and rewrite the same sentence across the yard. There was a time when such a blizzard would have felt like confinement. This morning, it felt like an invitation.
He layered himself in wool and flannel, pulled his hat low, and opened the door. The wind answered immediately, sharp and breathless, filling his lungs with cold so pure it almost burned. Snow stung his cheeks. He laughed—an old, quiet laugh—and stepped out anyway.
The yard was untouched. No tracks. No signs of life. Just a wide, flawless page.
He waded into the deepest drift and, without ceremony, lay back. The snow cradled him, yielding with a soft sigh. He swept his arms and legs slowly, deliberately, listening to the storm roar above him while the earth held him below. For a moment—just one—he felt suspended between sky and ground, between effort and surrender.
When he stood, brushing snow from his coat, the angel revealed itself: wide wings, a flowing body, perfectly imperfect. Already the edges were softening as fresh snow drifted down, as if the storm itself were trying to claim it.
Then Liam noticed something else.
From the far edge of the yard, a line of delicate tracks approached—not bold like deer, not heavy like bear, but quick and curious. A squirrel had paused nearby, its tail marks etched faintly in the powder. Beyond that, the hopping signature of a rabbit looped close, then veered away. Overhead, a blue jay burst from a pine, scattering snow in a sudden, winged flourish that left its own brief, accidental imprint beside the angel.
Liam smiled.
Perhaps they didn’t make snow angels the way humans did—but they left their marks all the same. Proof of presence. Proof of play. Proof that life moved through even the fiercest weather, leaving fleeting signatures behind.
Soon the angel would vanish. So would the tracks. But for now, they shared the same moment, the same white breath of the world.
As Liam turned back toward the warmth of the wee cottage, the blizzard howled on—but something gentle remained behind. Not the angel itself, but the knowing that beauty does not resist the storm.
It dances with it.
* * * * * * * * * *
Although the temperatures are mild for January, the cold still carries a certain authority. Darkness presses close outside the window, while inside the wee cottage, lamplight and warmth hold steady. The contrast brings a deep sense of contentment—of peace earned, not assumed.
An Albinoni oboe concerto drifts through the room, its notes slow and tender, as if aware of the snow falling beyond the glass. I think of blizzards and snow angels, of how poetry often gathers there—where power meets playfulness.
Poems about snow angels speak of fleeting joy and lasting memory, of storms that erase and moments that endure. Snow becomes a lover, a guide, a sacred canvas—briefly bearing witness to something made with no intention of permanence. Snow Angels by Poetic T comes to mind: a wish pressed into the earth, held for a moment, then transformed.
And then my thoughts drift to a line I read yesterday, from Dr. Wayne Dyer:
“You can make your life into a grand ever-evolving work of art. The key is in your thoughts, the wondrous, invisible part of you that is your spiritual soul.”
Isn’t that what the snow angel is?
An act not meant to last—yet meaningful because it was made.
A gesture shaped by joy, not outcome.
A creation born of the soul, however briefly it remains visible.
May this moment, this day, this life be a grand ever-evolving work of art.
Not perfect. Not permanent.
But sincere. Playful. True.
And so, with coffee warm in hand and snow whispering outside the window, I begin this wonderful day.
~Wylddane
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