Most artists use a white canvas,
then add color.
You did just the opposite.
Upon every leafless tree and forested hill,
you sent from heaven above
a flurry of white
to paint your landscape.
Clearly each flake was carefully directed.
Thousands upon thousands,
blasted by cold wind,
speckle trunks of oak and maple,
defining sharply each tree in the forest.
Yet most gently floated down,
dabbed upon every limb, bough, and twig,
covering them with clean brightness.
Across the valley,
the morning sun strikes hilltops,
every glistening branch sparkling
with little diamonds of frozen cold.
As I sit on window seat,
beholding your wintry glory,
with sounds of a feast
being prepared in the kitchen behind me,
I give silent thanks
to an artist
who uses white so beautifully
to cover not only trees.
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