Footsteps in the grey snow,
trail of cigarette ash like bread crumbs,
dark flecks of embers, melted,
embedded into the frozen crystals
should we need to find our way back
to whence we once came or where we were going.

Under the green and black boughs
crowned in fine vapors frozen in the shape of small webs and throwing stars;
under the black sky florescent with street lights
beyond which their were stars shy of the city,
even its quiet parks,
where we walked through white dust,
the shapes and bodies of angels-
an army fallen around us sleeping invisible.

The low query of a night owl
rippled through the evergreens,
a fresh shower of flakes fell from wells grown into the canopy.
Watching our airborne breaths we felt born for this season.