By Patricia Taylor Wells
Under a grey dome the pine trees
Are pasted against the sky,
Their branches swooping down to
Release their burden of snow.
Even the stillness seems to shiver in the wind
As it scatters snow dust all around,
Coating a landscape that will soon be scarred
By creatures scurrying about.
The white, powdered gound will
Sparkle when the sun appears,
Clinging to its fairytale existence
Before it melts away.