by Richard Greene

The sun, a fiery nest
in crystal flecked haze,
is soon no more than a smudge,
embers smothered in ashen cloud.
Stillness settles
on a waiting world.
Then snow begins,
mere motes at first
speckling the sky's gray shell,
then a steady flow of flakes,
soon swarming, swirling, driving sideways,
whiting out fields, trees, houses, hills,
coiffing bush and branch,
muffling the ground
in downy layers,
wrapping us
in a cocoon of silence.


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