Snow has been softly falling all day.  The Missouri Cedar in the front yard is beginning to look like a frosted Christmas tree. My mind recalls Dylan Thomas’s opening sentence in “A Child’s Christmas in Wales.”

“One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sounded except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.”