The skies grow leaden
We carry in split pine
To stack atop the hearth
Without our notice the snow begins
Bringing with it silence
And transformation
The tree boughs gather weight
and cannot move in the gentle wind
Except to dip lower
And finally spring free showering the ground
With more snow
The sharp angle of fence
The spiky profile of brush pileA stack of old lumber
Molded to sculpture by snow
Across the hills and valley
Everything under the cold white stillness
And we warm beside the crackling fire
The snow at the window
Like an excluded ghost