Moonlit Patterns

The clouds drift around the mountain top.
As the sun sets they curve around and settle too.
The pointed tops of pine trees are dipped in mist and vapor.
Needles frosted. Bark crystalined. And a chill rises.
Marrow stills and my face reddens.

The dark.
The old apple tree in the pasture becomes a rag woman
weighed down and with fragile fingers.
She yawns at me and says,
Don't you feel the snow? I feel it in my bones.
She gives a sudden shiver and those low fallen clouds let go.
The snowflakes fall covering all.

Those silent dark shapes around me are muffled in heavy glow.
The creaking green gate stops in its well-worn path.
And I lay a palm out to the sky.
Asking for more.
And it gives it to me.
A perfect flake upon mitton.
The old gate and apple tree are covered.
Forgotten shapes.
All white that collects the moonlit patterns of the night.