Nature never sleeps.
On the coldest mornings
S/he is etching images
on my windows,
reminding me
that winter does
not mean that
the painters brush is still.

Even monotonous gray
sub zero chill
hooded skies cannot
dampen her ardor.
I gaze at birds and trees,
swaying seaweed,
fairy tale Forests,
fantastic fans.
Images of
every conceivable shape
sketched in white crystal.
And when the sun
surfaces from the deep
I am astonished,
struck dumb by Her Brilliance.
Yes, very well written, “Winter does not mean that the painter’s brush is still”! 👍
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