Whiteout
God whispers to the angels,
who open their aprons toward earth.
A thick curtain of flakes
cover life and death alike.
A swaying screen sweeps away color,
defuses light, disturbed only by a soft wind
slanting the mantle eastward;
pierced by stark sentinels whose branches
stand solid against its breath.
Schools close as kids cheer
and nature dons a turbid cloak.
The sky's roof caresses treetops.
Life stills, cocooned
in winter's satin embrace.
Who but the Creator
could alter our ambience
in one glorious afternoon?
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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