Snow defines the branches and trunks
of poplars and cedars
outside my window.
Snow frosts the railing of the porch.
Up the mountain space between hardwoods
is white and gray and blue.
Flakes that began as seeds of frozen rain
have bloomed soft, feathery, falling steadily
from sky the color of bone.
Insulated from the world,
I imagine people only a few miles
down the mountain struggling
to reach the promised land of the grocery store,
lining up to receive magic milk and bread.
I stare out my window,
hypnotized by the rhythm of the falling snow.