There is a paradox in the allurement of snow.

No other display of nature can arouse so wide a swath of emotion. When joy is at charge, the snow is ascribed as glittering, merry, sparkling, dazzling, and the crown of winter’s beauty. When rushed, the snow is cursed as inconvenient, a nuisance, a hazard. When sorrowful, it is oppressive, insufferable, deafening in its silent assault. It buries familiarity, yet also that which may wish to be forgotten. It amplifies light, yet limits mobility. It is the glistening, gilding of winter’s mantle, and the opaque curtain that ceases vision.

The duration of descent, the intensity of the fall, accompanied by its surrounding elemental force, and the quantity hoarded by the earth all contribute to which facade the snow dons.

When it is gentle, with but a breath or so of wind, and light cloud cover, it is peaceful. A serenity and joy well up as the docile, taciturn crystals flitter to earth. When patches of sunlight slip through, they enchant the flakes, igniting them into iridescent glitter against the backdrop of dormant trees. The modest cache retained by the earth serves as a glistening blanket, gilding the barren land. The hearts of children, and those who never lost what is important in life, are kindled with glee, wonder, and mirth

But if the clouds wax more somber, or the flitter flurries into an assault, or the wind rages, or the earth’s apatite becomes insatiable, then the silent flecks don an ominous mask. The air itself seems to soak up joy like a sponge. The horizon becomes closer as sight is squelched by the maelstrom of white. Fear like concrete sets as mobility becomes infeasible. The laughter of children is absent, and those who lost important things in life loose mournful sighs.