State College in Early Winter

We wake up to a dusting of snow:
Blades of grass, bent;
Curled brown leaves, filled like pie crusts;
The smell of newness;
The sound of nothingness.

Flurries dance in the road,
Swirl in invisible currents,
Glow in the diffuse streams of light
That have breached the clouds
Like fingers of ghosts.

The ridges of the mountains
Are draped in lace;
Naked branches intertwine
Over white ground.
It is beautiful here.