The snow falls solid and silent,
thickening atop waiting surfaces.
The dirt pathways disappear first
then the grasses, the fir trees, the bouquets of unpicked flowers
colored only by my remembering.
The fresh shroud of white slowly erases distinctions,
casually eliminating illusions of safety
for those without layers upon layers
of hair coat
or fluffed feathers
or jackets and scarves.
The quiet crescendos.
Our senses welcome this monotone landscape.
Time to retreat.
Time to rest.
Time to nourish and renew what’s now hidden beneath.
What is frozen will thaw.
Winter’s promise we always believe.
