It is impossible, is it not, to step out into our landscape,
without receiving or sensing or feeling, or in my case, spontaneously writing…
poetry.

How this soft, silent, sparkling world of fresh snow
with stenciled trails made by tiny paws,
and carved paths, made by larger ones–mine–

In a southernly snow-shoed spiral on the front lawn
just beyond the waves of White tossed
by Jimmy Cloud’s plow late last night

Is now being sprinkled by fairy dust falling
from the blue sky, or is it the Evergreen
boughs shaking

Upon me
as I write
this verse
in my mind.