Heaven’s dust


The Angels must be sweeping Heaven this morning
as gentle snow falls silently through the white lined trees.
The sun is hiding, leaving Earth to bathe in her own beauty,
the beauty of simplicity,
an array of lines,
light vertical birch boles sprouting bare, diagonal branches skyward
against the dark trunks of wrinkly pine trees, their heavy arms hanging,
while the rolling shore across the lake breaks up the horizon
and closer yet, an endless number of tiny ice crystals accumulate until,
below them they have buried any grounds on which life’s creatures may wander.
But creatures none are to be seen, no bird’s song to be heard,
so all I am left with on this late January morning is the magnificent gift
of hearing the Earth breathe, accompanying my own,
before one last adjustment drowns all individuality.


~ by spasmicallyperfect on January 29, 2009.

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