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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Everyday Canvas
"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
David Whyte
This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.
January 6, 2024 at 12:22pm January 6, 2024 at 12:22pm
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Prompt:
"There's just something beautiful about walking in snow that nobody else has walked on. It makes you believe you're special." ` Carol Rifka Brunt
Have you ever been the first footsteps in the snow after a storm? Do you remember if you felt special? Do you remember the fresh smell?
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Have I ever been the one with the first footsteps in the snow? Well, of course. Many times over.
Years ago when we lived on Long Island, NY, we had a two-acre backyard, and when the snow covered it and everything else, I had to walk on it, if not for anything but to get the wood for the fireplace from the shed. I have to say, despite the cold, those experiences were once in a million; especially, when the full moon rose over the all-white landscape at night. Eerily beautiful, I should say!
When I walked on that fresh snow, every step I took left a mark, a signature of my presence, with my footprints creating a narrative, a unique path that narrated my trek through the snow. This freshly blazed trail was a fleeting monument to my walking through that path, as it was inevitably erased by time, wind, and more falling snow.
The sensation of fresh snow underfoot was always a textural delight. It could be powdery and light, or densely packed and crunchy, offering a satisfying resistance with each step. The chill of the snow seeping through my boots woke up my senses, reminding me of the winter's cold reality. I know if I had to do that very thing at this time, in my old age, I wouldn't dare do it. Where I live now there's no snow and therefore, less art.
Walking on that fresh snow and breathing its clear, clean scent was like experiencing a living art piece – it was an ephemeral, dynamic, and interactive experience. It was a moment of peace and tranquility when I felt I was part of something bigger, something very beautiful as if it were a silent dialogue between me and the untouched beauty of that winter landscape.
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