We woke to a scene from some silent movie.
A battlefield bewilderingly beautiful beyond belief.
Trees and bushes, battalions of freshly dressed wounded who had wandered from some field hospital
now standing silent in haphazard formation awaiting orders.
Soft white gauze coating every limb every twig every branch every needle as if coated in soft moss cotton balls.
Each refusedly resigned to shoulder the burden of their beauty
braced as the dawn light lay heavy upon them against the smokey grey sky.
The weight they bore accentuated the graceful curves of their woundedness
The groans muffled by the still falling snow,
tragedy disguised as comfort,
under each, false refuge from the cruel cold,
the red ornaments of rose hips and winter berries blood drops on dressings.
What to take from this tableau.
Gratitude for the beauty?
A lesson to look beyond?
Sorrow for such fleeting impermanence?
To see the love in suffering?
To be thankful for the blessing of thought?
To reach beside and touch the hand of one you love.
To be still and know.
