Operatic Wind

My front porch is white
Like a paint brush came by night
Wielded by fairies.


How lazy they fall,
The sparse fat flakes of snow;
The wind is harsher.

Silhouetted trees
Sway against the leaden sky;
Wind billows up road.









Not sunlight but snow
Fell upon this heavy rock
Leaving its shadow.

Operatic wind
Moves through whisper to loud song
With trees as backup.












The Chinese were right:
Just look at snow on old logs
To see Death is white.












Three hundred million
That's how many years ago
This boulder was born.












The abandoned shack
Filled with forgotten objects;
Each with its story.