The leaves that lie upon the snow
disturb the purity of white.
Their keepers were a bit too slow
to get the season’s timing right.
They settle on the crystal flakes,
and flutter in the winter breeze.
The ghosts of season past awakes
to mourn beneath the naked trees.
Now, some may rise in sultry dance,
while others wobble ‘cross the drifts,
as if they’re in some sort of trance.
Remainders doing minor lifts.
But oh, they’re so unusual,
to be atop and not below.
It may have been delusional
to see them lie upon the snow.
When I saw these leaves on top of the snow, I thought, “Shouldn’t these be under the snow? They must be late droppers.” What attracted my notice was them fluttering in the breeze. Some were even blowing across the snow like small creatures.
This poem is simply constructed as four quatrains with abab rhyming, in iambic tetrameter.
This picture was taken by the author himself on December 17, 2017.