And now, just a little poetry to reflect our wintry internment..
From The Snowstorm by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm....

Just a little Emerson...

When you do get out, and drink in the barren lanscape, skeletal trees, and sky the color of nothing, look at the snow. Can you comprehend it's bright white? White on the fields, white on the landscape, obscuring common shapes into strange fluffy knobs and lines, white so bright it stings the eyes, white so bright it brings tears. Remember the white that replaces the black ugliness of your sins. Remember the compassion. Remember the sacrifice, and drink in the white of forgiveness.