Snow storm

 

New snow accumulates over the bones
of the last snow.  The magnolia tree
blossoms in white along every twig and limb.
The breeze cannot undress it
while snow gently layers up, insisting on itself
in every junction.  To break its layering
the temperature would have to rise
and turn the crystal water into rain
leaving every twig black and swollen,
washed and ready for the next wave of change.
How patiently the trees hold the season—hold
each day’s gifts—as if each was necessary to its wellbeing.
How softly they whisper “Here I am”
to each other.  "Here I am," I whisper from inside.

 My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2026 Susan L. Chast