I do not want to say the snow is icing,
Nor do I want to comment on how the ice,
still suspended in drops and spikes, sparkles
as the rising sun peeks in on the brief chill
Because today means more than that.
The tranquil white and bright barks
mark the end of a long week:
it blankets the muddy tracks
So much so that a throaty whistle carries
a colorful tune from even feathered bodies.
It’s a new scene of sleeping trees.
When everything seems dead
it earns a fine burial cloth
ready for the rain.
