In Moments of Metamorphosis

Looking out at the falling snow.

Some of the boldest snowflakes continue to fall;
that's just Old Man Winter, once again,
ice on his knuckles and frost on his forehead,
writing yet another page of winter paragraphs.
He is the ancient man who persists in shaking
the tips of firs and swirling snow so that
even the shy will heed his composition.
Still, I wonder: is He content to raise doubt,
content to tolerate the chattering of teeth?
For one this ominous the meek are underfoot,
as this indifferent oldster can even
hold the hare steady in her prints.
His words slice out as a merciless chill,
his frost as sharp as the porcupine's quill.

My cat raises her head as if to question,
then stares at the picturesque scene,
a matrix of white flake, a throe ignited by solstice,
an intact yet undirected indiscretion of flurry.
Perhaps it's the mere calligraphy of flocculent cloud,
or the whimsical dance of recast rain.
Yet in all this fine crystal, perhaps there is more.
It does embellish the otherwise dull countenance
that today has opted to don, a whiter shade.
As my cat naps entirely content in her chair, 

I think about changes in light of day.

Reviews

[Kelsie Eileen Stark]

Beautifully written! I love the descriptions!