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.
I am grateful
for each and every one.