On a Winter Painting

Pillowy white goose feathers have fallen softly upon the creaky grass rotting away after the autumn feast. Lacy icicles of flakes freezing the final leftovers of the trees. Exhausted life protected below the snowstriken embrace of this mysterious quilt. What will emerge out of the covers once the long sleep is done? Trees, bushes or, may hap, a rose? a butterfly? or, woe, the slithering body of a snake sliding its way in hissing sighs melting the ice while winding by?