To be the first to set foot
on fresh snow at the hour of dawn.
The field a white cloth
spread wide on the table of the earth.
The sky and the earth are white satin twins,
separated only by the faint gray whiskers of the oaks.
Endless emerald needles of the pine
move soundlessly above.
They whisper to me
as hushed as winter,
as thin as January.
A moment in time,
the clock pauses.
A mist of the finest snow
burns my cheeks
and reminds me that I walk here on this earth.
Hovering between white and white.