Beneath snow’s blanket

In the absence of it all, like a calm dawn in a long, dry winter
Nestled in cabins; stoking fires from the bodies of pine
and the skin of the birch
Twig fingerlings and the parchment of the crass inflict fervency to the flame
The prior prod of the cold has relented  
 
As I dally through the meadows lain of white,
my footprints are like pressed art to the earth, revealing my every intention
Like a visual chronicle defining my aspirations
Winter is both life and death;
fleeting moments of here and beyond
The lull peaks my curiosity like an unfinished prose
Athirst to add new lines to the quietude  
 
I see subtle remnants of life;  
of what once was and now isn’t  
Nests emptied of memoir
Flowing brooks, now stoic
The water that once rippled, anchored in time
Winter is that insolent guest that wants another cup of coffee
One does not anticipate an early departure
Not today; not tomorrow
 
The world beneath your blanket is breathless  
The grasses, rigid
The sediment, like stone, encapsulating life; suspended in a calm to reincarnate at a later hour
To sleep in the day’s cloister  
and wither in the night’s scold  
In that sullen white  
That stiffens our bodies in awe
of its static expression
and the stymie of its connotation