In all this blankness,
a squirrel finds the precise spot
it buried a nut.
Breaking trail with snowshoes,
I choose to believe
I’m half-floating, not half-sinking.
Clumps of snow sail off the trees,
making a random scatter
of oblong prints.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Just enough here to give the snow some outline. The rest is blankness, as the first line suggests. It’s quite nice.
Thanks.