Under the steeple’s shadow
nestle matching white mounds;
bending branches cradle
puffs of snow dispersed
by the breath of a passing bird.
Beside the brook’s icy cap,
glittered marsh grasses stand,
spiked with a dry brush.
Treetops tinged with a touch
of alizarin crimson glow
in the sunset lending its last light
to the dark and chilly house.
Tomorrow, the bushes will shine
like melting candelabras,
leaning over animal tracks
parading into the crystal woods
as gum trees wave pompoms
and towering boughs toss
chilly confetti on passersby.
But tonight, we dine on cold chicken
by candlelight with our hats on,
knowing our blanket mounds await.
When I told my daughter that the scene before us looked like a Bob Ross painting, she asked, “are you saying that God uses him as a consultant?”