First Snow

I awake each year to Bruegellian falling snow, sharp pinpricks of sound scattered across the pitched roof of the bedroom.

The ground gradually whitens in the half light. Grey trees stand tall and sharp and individual against it.

Buds heralding a new year are small and tightly furled against the cold.

A last copper leaf relinquishes its hold and falls, a fragile bridge between past and future.

I take out my boots again for the first time. They begin warm and dry.

Trudging to the top of the hill, cheeks and mittens dyed red, with the dog at the edge of the woods, I see smoke emerging from the kitchen woodstove chimney. My breath puffs out in echo. There is warmth waiting inside.

I almost expect to see the village below, with skaters on the frozen river, snow pushed back to the edges.

No one is yearning for spring at this moment. The earth has received its permission to sleep after three seasons of labor.

***

Thank you for reading my words. More of my poems, stories and articles can be found here on Vocal. Tips, hearts, reads and subscriptions are all methods by which you can support my writing and the writing of talented authors on this platform. Any and all are much appreciated.

Hunters in the Snow photo: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Pieter_Bruegel_the_Elder_-_Hunters_in_the_Snow_(Winter)_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg# Image size 2,560 x 1,822 pixels