White on White

Snow falls but rarely here,

and when it does,

strangers

stop each other on the street

to lament its inconvenience.

But I am grateful 

for the beauty

of white on white,

for still church yards,

undisturbed

by passers-by,

for country views

as quiet

as a whisper,

for wild rose hips

wearing winter caps,

for strong arbutus trees

raising rust-hued branches

toward the snow-greyed skies,

 and for yellow-ochre willow twigs

shouting defiantly

that Spring is on the way.

So brief,

these still, white moments,

so transient,

so sweet.
I am grateful
for each and every one.