Snow. More of It

Snow. More of it. White. Pretty to look at.
A bit cumbersome, it slows everything down.
It quiets the world. Partially because of physics.
Partially because wiser people stay home.

Old things become oddly photogenic.
Barns with a smattering of paint. Old tractors.
Things that get lost in the color of spring,
but now, in the snow, assert themselves.

About this poem

About snow in New England. About how often, in hard times, or in the struggle of love, the quietest people rise. Poetry is rarely about one thing.

The picture was taken just down the street from me in West Pawlet, Vermont.

Tom