The ninth of January twenty-twenty-three, my goodness this is how the precious time flies,
I have lived under the longest blizzard, from darkest night to snowy skies,
Yet I have come alive, for now I thrive, striding the track filling my lungs with pure cold air.
Surges of daylight illuminating a snow white landscape so often starved of an early sunrise,
Yet the blinding reflections of light amid sapphire shadows can still surprise,
Ghostly pines, firs and spruce bent beneath their crystalline burdens causing me to stare.
Swirling wind whips up white powdery flurries, patterns that only mighty nature may devise,
Loping hares' feet print the flawless canopy of snow, as from the woods they rise,
I seize my freedom space from winter's cleansing white infinity, when all the land lies bare.
A McTiernan
