I’ve been studying storytelling and snow for the last week,

watching from a distance and making silent observations on

what I like and dislike about each of them.

I’m not convinced I’ve learned a thing.

I offered rice and homemade scones to Irishmen

and tried to remember what it was like to play the guitar.

I cuddled lambs and cleaned up poop,

And filled the wood stove at least a hundred times –

Almost as often as I used the broom and dustpan.

And still, when I dropped into bed at the end of each day,

Back aching and hands stiff from age, cold weather,

and the certain beginnings of what my grandma called rheumatism,

sleep eluded me like an unreciprocated crush,

circling in for a kiss on the cheek,

then slipping away before it could be captured and caressed.

There are stories that are so long they wear you down,

And there is snow that is so light you feel as though you’ve wandered into a cloud.

Both make you weary and longing for peace,

But neither promises satisfaction, warmth, or a good night’s sleep.

Perhaps a glass of wine will do.