There is something about untrodden snow
In places where even the animals and the pine pollen
Have yet to mar the unbroken layer of white.
There are so many scars on the ground beneath-
Fallen trees and haphazard rocks,
Rotting bodies and leaves and debris.
The snow covers all the signs of struggle and time,
Allowing winter to work its alchemy on those surfaces.
An imperfect reset,
A slow polish waiting for the rain wash of spring.
I’m fond of both the perfection and the disruption.