On a cloudless night,
when the fields are white with snow,
the air is crystal cold
and a full moon rises
high above the trees,

It is easy to believe
that you can see a hundred miles at midnight.

Even vapored breath
catches that light,
curling out, rippling into nothing,
vanishing like old thrills.

On a foggy morning,
when the roads are black with ice
the radio crackles its warnings,
and the silent mist freezes
low and heavy on the trees,

It is easy to believe
that you can feel the weight within your bones.

There is both beauty and danger
in the bleak manger of winter.
The same cold that splinters night
forms the frozen waterfall,
etches ferns on the windows,
yields the splendor of gleaming ice,
curves branches beneath their load of snow.

Miles of wooded hills and smooth fields,
covered by the same coat
that will one day melt and feed
the aching thirsts of spring and seed.

H. Arnett
1/21/19