Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Creative writing: My version of "Winter"

Oftentimes when I assign a writing exercise for the kids, I also fulfill that assignment. Sometimes I make my version about a slightly different topic - a description of a home I spent part of my childhood in instead of this house - and let the kids see it before they write so they know how much detail or what style I expect. Other times I let them read my writing after they're done. That's this case with the "Winter" assignment.

One wrote prose. Two wrote poetry. I wrote the series of phrases.

Here's my take on winter:

A gentle snowfall.
Hushed woods.
Pristine whiteness.
Ah, the beauty of winter.

Misty breaths in nipping, cold air.
Shimmering snow under silvery moonlight.
Soft whiteness lining every branch after a snowfall.
Scent of wood smoke in the frosty air.
Crunch of snow under boots.
Sledding and trudging up the hill and racing down again and again.
Laughter and screams.
Reddened cheeks and runny noses.
Cross-country skiing, the whoosh of skis in the stillness of barren-branched woods.
Hot chocolate.
Sitting by the crackling fire.
Jingling bells and tinsel and excitement in the air.
Countless batches of cookies baking in the oven, filling the house with their fragrance.
Presents and wrapping paper and always chocolates.
Christmas cards and caroling.
Snow angels.

Howling winds and freezing temperatures.
Tingling in the nose from frost crystals.
Hunching against the wind while walking to work.
Scraping ice and brushing off snow, again and again and again.
Snowplows rumbling up and down our road.
Cars unable to drive up the slope of our street.

Tracks of deer crisscrossed across the back woods.
Too cold for birds to chirp.
Magical glitter drifting down in the sunlight.
Frost drawings on windowpanes.
Another snow flurry.
More shoveling.
Milky gray skies for days and weeks on end.

Frozen surfaces of lakes and rivers.
Breaking the ice on the water garden so the goldfish survive.
Rhododendron leaves curled tight as pencils in the frigid temperatures.
Bringing in countless loads of wood to heat the house.
Warming my hands.
Always feeling cold.
Yet more snow and cold and gray days.

Groundhog Day.
Still the drab skies.
Ever-present cold.
Another blizzard.

Dripping icicles.
Good packing snow.
Snowmen, snowballs, snow fights.
Jubilant cries and flushed faces.

Filthy gray-black snow banks by roadsides.
Chirping of chickadees.
Honking of Canada geese as they travel in skeins across the sky.
Melting snow, flooding creek, mud.

A snowdrop blooms.

1 comment:

What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal.”
— Albert Pike, Scottish Rite Freemason (1809-1891)