The crisp black against the white moon.
The silent night, the dead winds,
Stilled by the anticipation.
The bare branches, hang low.
A little golden glow
Of a dim street lamp spreads out like a halo.
The foggy streets, so empty and lonely.
A moment of smoke, as I dare to breathe,
Little vapors rise, and dance away.
Gently they come down, like a lullaby,
The fluffy little cotton balls,
The trees, those sentries of the wintery nights,
Greet them with their open arms,
Delighted by the embrace.
A soft but thick white blanket underneath my feet,
And I leave a trail behind.
And from a distant, a cart comes jingling.
Oh, and the driver sings a song.
It has been for the winters here and gone.
Of a first snowfall.
Linking up with Trifecta : Week Fifty-five