On a Morning After New Snow and a Winter of Healing Inside

Out there in the yard 
            winter drips silver 
            and bombardiers through branches its excesses 
                        of yesterday. White. 

White mounding and leveling, puffing up 
            on rocks and seats and sills, fluffing edgeless 
                                    Over walks 

To take on the sun that shimmers it to 
                        attention, my attention cutting it through 
                                    With skis turning it to wands that track 
                                                my flight as I track that bird there 
                                    In the animate silence of breathing 
White. 

White is right for veiling what 
                        is vibrant as it is unseen. 

And ripe. 
Hibernation or migration would skip this dance 
with white. How pale to sleep or wake to only 
gold or green.