Early Winter 2025 North Bruce Peninsula

The leaves have left the black branches barren, fractal
as frost on an air-leaky window pane but uglier.
Gone, all but for the most stubborn brown sarcophagus
here and there.
Like the nuisance guests at a reception
who insist on drinking until closing time.
A month ago these hardwoods were radiant
with red and yellow and orange, the awe-inspiring
death throes of the season.
I have been gone—
the difference is chilling.
On this brilliant morning the sun sparkles
off the lake now a field of brilliant white.
The barren branches become catchlight
in the newly blown décor.
It seems nearly impossible that it is 5 degrees outside
until you step out into the not quite breathable air.
Some old nursery rhyme says the groaning snow
sounds like wooden spoons rubbed together.
I’ve tried to do the spoon thing.
It is impossible. A cruel use of evocative language
to fake you into remembering something
that has never happened.
Here is the truth
the snow groans like snow being stepped
on when it’s five degrees.
If it sounds like anything, to me, it sounds like
the snow’s dolorous, “You’re home. You’re home.”