The wind blows
Yet no one knows
Save for the trees that grow
No one around No one to make a sound
Save for the wolves that tread the ground
The wolf pack prowls
They howl
Yet they are so foul
The prey they seek
Only the small and the weak
The ones that are meek
A blanket of snow
White, crunching, you know
Looking like it has sorrow
What is this creation?
What is this sensation?
Is this an incarnation?
No it’s just an object
But in retrospect
When closer
I do inspect
It is a globe
Of snow