Winter Is Here

House roofs just previously
frost-crusted, now crowned
generously with the soft, thick
whiteness of new-fallen snow.
Tiny pin-points of snow drifting
from a pewter-shaded, opaque
morning sky. The winter chill
has been tastefully elaborated.

Out in the woods all is still
but for the occasional sound of
a spruce bough unburdening.
When this occurs over water, the
ravine stream comes alive with a
series of concentric ripples. The
landscape has been suddenly,
overnight, transformed.

Yesterday, late November looked
sere, desiccated, grey. Today
it is glistening, white, gay. We
now crunch through a respectable
layer of snow pack, hiding the
crusty, crumbling, darkened leaves
piled on trails and the forest floor.
Everything washed clear of detritus.

We can smell the snow, its recalled
fragrance a joy of our youthful
winter escapades in iced speed and
the incredible lightness of being.
Yesterday's dullness become today's
fair, glittering land of visual delight.
We stride along, muffed, mittened
and warm, conquering all that lies
before our memory-laden eyes.