|The storm has leeched the colors -|
bleached with whiteness the greens and browns
turning the world into a black and white photo op.
Heavy, wet snow coats every twig and branch.
The maple and cherry trees fairy etched,
but the pines hang heavy beneath their winter cloaks.
No birds dance 'round our feeders
under their six-inch snow caps. There is
a singular quiet - a hush - a waiting to exhale.
Talking heads say the wind is coming; one
of heroic proportions. But the woodbin is full
and the fireplace is scenting the house with cherry.
They say we've twenty-four hours of snow to go.
The dog, refusing the shoveled path, sinks
belly deep. Comes in to melt by the fire.
Curled up in my chair, I stare
out through the warm side of the glass,
mug of coffee cupped in my hands.