black wooden fence on snow field at a distance of black bare trees

. . . after a few days, the fresh snow is not so fresh.

Melting at edges where you’d think no edges should

be, the snowflakes frozen overnight lose the density

of their brightness.  Deer tracks, feral cat tracks, fox

tracks, bird tracks disturb that once pristine snowfall.

The beauty falters.  Not to mention the roads plowed

and the rock salt thrown and the gray-black grime

along the edges of the roads.  Not to mention that 

secret longing the snowfall brought when first 

falling to be covered by something as natural 

and pure as the snow, the scenes it creates

where everything seems in place and for a moment

– Life is art – is whispered.  Each season

has its moments when this whisper is heard.

Especially the seasons of the heart where at least 

once in one’s life love covers everything.

hootism: We value what improves our lives but not our inner life.  The consequences are everywhere.