Snow falls in
big, wet flakes
which blanket the ground
and mute the noise.
Save for the swirling, whooshing wind
and the distant drone of cars.
I walk past the Honey House
along the gurgling brook,
whose waters rush over the smooth rocks.
I walk through an open cornfield,
old stalks peeking above
the newly fallen snow.
I walk through the woods and up a hill,
which is difficult to climb in the slippery snow,
to a cemetary.
Empty and quiet in its absence of life
but fullness of its
remanents of tombstones.
Some so old and covered in moss
you can't read the epitaphs.
Snow is picking up now,
though pockets of watery light
peer through the swollen sky.
Time to move on and keep walking.