The fall of snow glistens in white
Like silver threads in a tapestry;
It weaves a winter's tale of old,
With it's silent imagery.
The fence-posts guard it's fortress bare,
Stoic sentenials woven in
Portraying some ancient nordic march
Of heroic deeds and men.
A shaft of gold cuts through the pines
Illumining the barren day;
It's crystal clarity dispels
My tapestry away.
My field is once more only a field,
Covered with snow so deep,
And it must be some illusive wind
When I hear distant, marching feet.
Thursday, January 2, 2003