at home in the snow

Gold leaves on the cold ground, resting, dying on the snow.

So the fall gives in to winter, another beautiful season of death. Why are some deaths acceptable, and not others? Others – that must be it…

We go up, we come back: It’s a short road I travel every day. What are these leaves, dying on the ground around me...

We tramp on the leaves – their colors go. Green, gold becomes the snow. Fresh, as if it were growing there, beneath us.

If we weren’t here, where would we be? If they weren't here, where would they be?

Now a tiny rain disappears into a bit of winter, and we totter through the slush. Home.

The light fails.

But we don’t need it. With the baby snow and its cold we brought home, we’re building a white monument in ourselves – full of rain-ticked glass, wet boots, tired dogs & warm food…A monument to the winter, the season of white and gray, and we’re calling it home.