I woke to a foggy world. The snow still carpeting my backyard seems to be rising into the air, transforming itself from a solid to a gas, skipping the liquid state altogether. Is there a name for this?

Yes, there is. It’s sublimation, I learn, or relearn, since surely I was tested on this at some point in my schooling. Sublimation is the noun; sublime is the verb.

It doesn’t look sublime (adjective). It looks like a soggy mess. Tufts of ground cover emerge from the now-softened snowcrete. A lone limb lies helter-skelter under the witch hazel tree. It’s more Ash Wednesday than Shrove Tuesday.

Shrove Tuesday it is, though. Also not sublime, because this day of feasting precedes a day of fasting. On the other hand, I have some time before the boom is lowered. I think I’ll go downstairs now and have a piece of cake for breakfast. Now that is sublime.