Snow On Foliage Poem by David Welch

Walk outside onto the scene,
pre-dawn gray, all is serene,
slivers of a morning bright,
on the pasture do alight.
October, but early snow,
came with night and winds that blow,
flakes strewn from a showerhead,
swirled while I slept in my bed.
But the leaves, they still remain,
looking like a frosted flame,
blazing orange, dusted white,
fringe the meadow in my sight.
Like a painting Bob Ross made,
nature's precise tint and shade,
Autumn's death or winters birth…
just mere heartbeats to the earth.
Barren times, but still sublime,
cold inklings of the divine,
tempted to stand here all day,
but I must drive, bills to pay.
And though this landscape looks great,
snow on leaves means lots of weight,
branches breaking, roads half-blocked,
slow drive for men on the clock.