We're buried in snow up here -- but it's amazingly still, evocative. In this kind of weather, any number of poems come to mind: "Silence in the Snowy Fields" by Robert Bly is a favorite. Just the title digs into the mind. And of course I think of Frost, with "Desert Places" and "Dust of Snow." I also recall some line in Emerson, where talks about the blankness of the snow, which allows the imagination room to add so much, to put in colors of its own.
The weather is, in fact, a mood itself, and it adds something. I wonder if I'd enjoy living in a climate where it's summer all the time; in these days of heavy snow, beautiful snow, I think not...
