Writing exercise – An acrostic poem using CRISP
Coats fastened tightly against the cold, Romping through mounded snowdrifts, Icy winds snatching hats from heads, Shouts rising into the air, People celebrating the first snowfall of the season.
Writing exercise – A Winter Memory
When I was a young woman, just graduated from college, I lived for a while in Tulsa Oklahoma. That winter a big snow storm blew in and shut the town down. I shared an apartment with my work mate, Sandra, and we were happy to find our office was closed for the day. I buried myself in a new mystery book and Sandra threw herself into knitting a scarf for her current boyfriend. Occasionally, we took a break and wandered to the window to gaze out at ever-deepening snow. With plenty of food on hand, we passed the day in comfort and retired early to our beds.
About two a.m. someone pounded on the door and gave our doorbell a real workout. It was Ralph, our next door neighbor. “Come on girls!” he said “Get dressed! You have to see this.”
We scrambled into warm clothes, coats, hats and gloves and followed Ralph down the stairs and out to the street. It was light outside, almost as bright as day. The glow of the cities lights, reflected off the heavy clouds above, turning night into a magical twilight.
There was no wind and I noticed how absolutely quiet it was. We looked at each other, but didn’t want to break that spell of silence. A blanket of snow buried everything under its soft mounds. Our breaths made little clouds of fog that hung in the air.
Ralph waved his arm commandingly and led the way up the street. We trudged single file through the deep snow, our boots squeaking as we slipped and slid along making our own little path through the white. Several blocks later, we arrived at a small neighborhood park, where we saw that other brave souls had ventured out.
Suddenly we were in the middle of a snowball fight. Shouts of laughter erupted from all the merry warriors, as we threw ourselves into the battle like carefree children.
Exhausted, with frozen toes and fingers, we retreated from the field and crunched our way home to bed, with happy hearts.
Wava Devin Writing 