VERMONT WINTER -- White Genesis

If you lead a good life, eat all your vegetables and say all your prayers, when you die you'll go to Vermont.

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CELEBRATE THE SEASON:
The Lone Winter
by Anne Bosworth Greene

White Genesis
by Wayne Kelley

Let Them Eat Fruitcake
by Mary Lou Healy

IN THE FARMHOUSE KITCHEN:
Holiday Recipes

EVERYTHING WOOD HEAT:
Oh No! My Woodstove Has a Catalyst in It!!
by Daryle Thomas

VERMONT VERSES:
Thanksgiving
by Wendy Warfield

INTO THE OUTDOORS:
The Perils of a Long Winter's Sleeep
by Madeline Bodin

GET OUT AND ABOUT:
Vermont Country Calendar
Statewide Calendar of Events

EXPLORE OUR OTHER SEASONS:
FALL
WINTER
SPRING
SUMMER

If you didn't pass through Rural, Vermont to get to this site you may want to make a small detour.

It's worth the trip!

Write Us:
weathervane
@ruralvermont.com
We welcome your comments, suggestions, and questions.

or call: 802-645-9631
RD 1, Box 680
West Pawlet, VT 05775

White Genesis
by Wayne Kelley

Born in silence, its nativity little more than a footnote in time, it appeared as a whisper...wordless, close to soundless, lighting upon the night's slumbering breast. It left no print of its own, no sudden footfall in the darkness, and but for the whistling of a wayfaring wind, an itinerant, shadow-mongering gypsy, there would be no trail to trace. Having made its appearance, its presence in the nighttide caused no stir. It fell from the sky long after the darkness plunged to the earth, and with no living soul to mark its advent, nothing but the added chill it brought commanded any notice. No celestial light poured down in an act of coronation, nor were stars aligned like jewels to adorn this nocturne with resplendent nimbus. Not even a lamp in the nearby village glowed in the still, small hours to sprinkle its soul with brilliance.

Humbly born, no diamonds were cast before it. Christened in solitude, it possessed no diadem other than its own inner light. Its bed of soil lay cold, assailed by wind and defiled by earlier rains, but now in this breathless place was once more returned to innocence, a virgin earth, renewed in promise, with dreams of warmth in the night.

There was a sense of starting over to it all. Within the muted hush rang a proclamation of change. All had been forgiven, though not forgotten, as resurrection of memory was concomitant to the design. No voice disturbed the darkness. No desolate bird or dispirited cricket broke in upon the absence of sound.

Here was a landscape ripe for redemption, stark and sacred as prayer. It glowed without boast in shadows. It is this that astonishes. In its obscurity, it is its own shadow of things to come. Kissed by this morning's sun, it dissolves in white vapors above the hills. It is the beginning.
Wayne Kelley writes poetry and seasonal essays from his home in East Dorset, Vt.