First snowfall rarely comes vengefully,
invading as a Norse god bent on retribution.
It comes stealthily,
with a light tread,
in the middle of the night,
cascading down in an immaculate rush,
scurrying away on wisps of wind before morning’s twilight.
Its firstborn remains and changes everything,
with a purity that annihilates the season’s
broken branches, rotting leaves and candy wrappers.
The lagoon is dark and green, the gentle Nordic caller departed.
The breeze off the lake ripples the emerald surface,
and magnifies this jewel encircled by a fragile white blanket,
shimmering as mercury spilled from a pallid sky.