As winter progresses in the north the snow continues and builds up.  It leaves little colour left to be seen.  Everything is sheathed in a pillowy white layer awaiting a painter’s brush to transform it to a more colourful scene.

Even with the lack of colour, this blank sheet is a beautiful sight, a chance to start over with the look we desire for it.  Adding colour by shoveling out around what’s already there, or wrapping a scarf around a freshly formed snowman.  But for a little while this world of white is beautiful in itself.

The bare trunks of white birch,

Surrounded by snow, everywhere I search.

Iced hilltops glitter in the light,

Spotted with black pine contrasting the white.

More ivory flakes fall all around,

Disappearing with the rest as they cover the ground.

Fields of gold, have turned to clean sheets of paper,

Bordered by barren trees, to where in the distance they taper.

Whitewashed rooftops, noticeable only by the smoke they billow.

Resting neatly, atop their snowy pillow.

This alabaster scene stretches across the distance,

It’s pale cleanliness, covers the countryside’s expanse.

All colour bleached into layers of white,

Leaving the untouched calm, of this pristine sight.

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