Blanket of Feathers

I hear the flowing of the water,
the rustling of the leaves
blowing away with
the whistle of the wind,
a resemblance of
the new to come.
 
Fall has vanished
in a cold blanket of
feathers
as white as baby
albino deer.
 
Some say
if you look close enough,
you can see,
in every snowflake
a carved piece of art.
Every cut is a perfect
masterpiece
varying in different
waves of the vines
that twirl around the
fragile designs of
the glistening snowflake.