First Snow

November air,

Like monday’s gray skies,

There’s too much night.

We try to warm the bitterness,

With libations soaked in cinnamon.

The trees stripped bare;

They don’t seem to mind

The lack of color everywhere.

The arctic wind, clean and sharp,

Draws frosted breath, and goose-fleshed arms.

From her somber heavens,

The soft deep silence is broken,

By inaudible tinkling of

Delicate,

Crystalline,

Rain,

Fairy wings fluttering against window pane.

As the sun rises against the too long dark,

She gives way to a world no longer gray,

The void covered in a whimsical array,

Prismatic iridescence.

For a moment,

November sparkles,

And joy escapes the bonds of seasonal deprivation,

To delight in fond recollection

Colors wondrous, magical

Found amongst the

Bare,

Barren,

Fragile,

White