There are times 
that even I
feel like a
snowy wood forgotten
my floors freshly 
fallen absent prints 
and my boughs 
heavy with newness 
in this pristine 
I am pleased 
until at last
movement of mouse
or even man
sully this home 
then I become 
but a place 
where one is
to go sometimes 

Oh home 
this place 
of old
comfort and 
cold floors
leaping from 
rug to 
rug avoiding 
these tender
toes know
no chill
hurry back
under covers 
with coffee 
and tales
of great 
kitchen adventures 

Sky above mountains 
blush a crimson 
slowly turning pink
as though chagrin 
fades by foot
higher up the 
edges turn white 
like the skin
around a wound 
and higher still
the pale blue 
of shallow seas
right before the 
deep dark blue 
of depths drown

It sits 
high above 
doing nothing 
but grow
in window 
and like 
a child 
in chair
or dog
on floor 
it smiles 
in its 
own way 
every so 
often bringing 
me a 
blossom of
silent joy 

It settles 
never seen 
just until 
it gathers
inside snow 
covering most 
especially dark 
like little 
bits of 
memory or 
pieces of 
broken hearts 
to be 
simply wiped 
away forgotten