I woke this
morn to unexpected white
that somehow
sifted through the night
without a
sound. No wind had blown
as Winter’s
work was softly sown
to flock
each roof, downy and thick
and quiet as the quilt and feather tick
in some
forgotten cottage in a wood.
And now
throughout the neighborhood,
the scraping
sounds of shovels call…
I would have
rather watched it fall.©11-28-13 Tom Kapanka
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