Snow

The snow that came and covered everything

Remained through daylight and, as evening fell,

Followed by sleet, became an icy sheet,

Coating the wintry scene in sparkling beauty.

The house next door,

ablaze with indoor lights,

Shone like a mighty fortress in a field

Of frozen yard, empty of summer’s harvest;

A silent solitude no longer used

For picnicking, or busy child at play.

My tree nearby ­that I could touch in summer

By reaching out my hand to its green leaves,

Beckoning to me, gentle and alluring-

That same tree now is distant and aloof,

Sheathed in transparent ice, each twig and branch

Glistening, unattainable in the streetlights;

Enchanted ice-maid caught in winter’s grip,

Only released when morning warms her limbs

And sunbeams set the captive maiden free.

The birdbath, long deserted, is a mirror,

Its surface marred by brown and battered leaves.

Feeders full of snow hold seed no longer,

Nor optimistic bird on slippery perch.

My shed, a tiny version of my house,

Its miniature, modest taupe-toned cousin,

Wears the same snow upon its slanted roof

As does my own abode in winter’s reign,

But now white snow has turned to silver ice.

Such grandeur viewed at night beneath the moon

Is worthy of an artist’s busy brush,

The finery of winter in an ice storm

Thin icicles, like rows of frozen tears

Upon a fence; frost patterns on the windows,

Each fairy flower gleaming like a star.

Venetian lace that dresses every bush;

Diamonds dripping from overhead wires,

Clear crystal jewels shining in the moonlight.

Then the world wakes at dawn, and stirs itself

And, slowly, underneath Sol’s molten gaze,

Shatters the spell of cold, indifferent night,

And seeks the timid warmth of winter’s days.

The late Diana Sutliff

Whitehall