Wet branches bare and black as night,
iced with snow, so pure and white,
contrast stark burned in my sight,
a snapshot stored with cold delight.
The lack of color, so complete,
the beauty made my knees so weak,
a slight wind made the branches creak,
I held my breath, afraid to speak.
My world was black and white and gray,
but perfect, sharp and crisp that day,
an Ansel Adams on display,
the image haunts me to this day.