The snow drifts to the ground
soft as babies breath
talcing the bottom of the farmer field.
The bows of barren maples brace
for the downy white.
Heat held in the asphalt
melts the first dusting,
its ashen countenance blanching, sullen
as the temperature plummets
cranky in the slush.
The snow laces the still air
edging the scrub brush
like baptismal lace on an infants gown.
A cradle cap for the bitter sweet
snow white and rose red.
Shush, the dawn traffic says
mother and child abed
Engines purr warmed and primed for morning.
Scrapers clear glass lens of light snow
the farm awakens.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2012
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