Trees' shadows painted on the snow,
pure white below --
an artwork formed
from winter's storm.
A gust of air assaults packed flakes,
and carving makes --
a sculpture cast
from wind's cold blast.
Each sparkling crystal in each drift,
a priceless gift --
admission free,
God's gallery.
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Author Notes
As annoying as it is to be snowed in as I am right now, I must begrudgingly admit the view from my window is gorgeous.
A minute poem consists of three quatrains - each one is written in iambic meter with syllables of 8/4/4/4.
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