Snow has been falling heavily off and on throughout the last couple of days,covering the landscape like a blanket of swan feathers.
Revealing the in perfect detail the earth's most subtle contour,
hillsides slopes visible through battalions of naked tree trunks.
Casting a hush over the forest,
the birds repairing to their own quiet places
to wait this weather out.
Even the skeins of geese are silent,
as if out of respect for the pall of silence cast by the snow.
And we sit by the fire, staring at blue-orange flames
saying very little
for the snow has also quieted our voices
and we are happy to be inside, warm, dry
as if covered by a blanket of swan feathers.
BOTB: very warm poem for this blustery day in the NE. Nice.
ReplyDeleteAs I get older I find subtle, muted beauty to be the most striking. Things seen as they are, as in winter; stark and bare, without ornamentation. But lovely. There’s something in it—some bittersweet truth—that I don’t get from the lively profusion of colors, textures, and scents of spring and summer. Maybe it’s just too easy then!
ReplyDeleteInteresting thought. And as I age I see much more beauty in the broken, fallen, worn, torn, and weary than I do from the tidy, colorful, and perfect around me. As if these older things carry a homeopathic dose of humanity or life in them and are trying to reveal ancient secrets.
ReplyDeleteThat's lovely, Bill. Thank you!
ReplyDelete