Waking in the gallery
at dawn, and told it’s snowing,
I raise the blinds and gaze into pure good fortune.
Courtyard steps a bright mirage of distance,
kitchen smoke trails light through flurried skies,
and the cold hangs jewels among whitened grasses.
Must be heaven’s immortals in a drunken frenzy,
grabbing cloud and grinding it into white dust.
translated by David Hinton
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Leonard Durso 
I will try, but in all my 80+ years I have never woken to a heavy snowfall.
Ah, well in Maine, where she’s living now, it’s a common sight.
This poem is surely as bright today as it must have been all those centuries ago! I hope Maureen in Maine was pleased with it.
She’s my oldest friend (over 60 years) and just moved from LA (she’s lived in California since the 70s ) to Maine to be near her daughter sosnow is still a novelty for her. This poem ca potures what she’s said in her email.
That’s nice to hear, Leonard. Thanks for explaining.