by revbillcook

Line of willows

along the path.

Snow. Wind lifting

thin branches sighs:

frost, alone.

Below: field opens,

snow drifts

dry as sand,

color of ash,

beyond: river flows

dark slow water.

Snow dripping from

pines measures the hours

in small hills

that disappear in the wind.

I close my eyes,

think: white, silk.