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by Jane Lang They are in there, the house, its thatched roof swaddled in nature's perfect blanket, cold yet secure Each branch on every tree is cloaked and as I watch, from my vantage point, I am thinking of days to come, when leaves are dappled by the sun now shining on the new, fresh, pristine snow You can see the imprint of his boots traveling to this twig-bent fence as he takes an armful of sweet smelling logs for the fire, his woman, his child, asleep, cradled in a basket he fashioned from those sturdy trees, guardians of his hearth I ponder my place in this man's heart, will I become a dab of black on a canvas after it has been coated with gesso, dried by the fire, will I become more than light, shadow of his pallet or just the magpie sitting on the top rung of the twig-bent fence singing a winter song
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