Out of my window I see beauty,

a scene of winter.

It’s a reflection of the outside world

through a perfect square shape.

There is a view of my front yard

as it is being sprinkled with snow

onto a layer of white icing

that smothers the ground.

Through the window,

I can see other front yards

with young ones bundled up in snowsuits

like colourful marshmallows

playing innocent games,

the games of childhood

while snowmen and forts

decorate the white lawns.

The few animals outside

run

scatter

scurry.

They are creatures of suburbia,

minding in their own business

in the winter wonderland that we share.

Like a snow globe,

flakes fall

onto the world,

as children catch the snowflakes

with their tongues,

layering more snow

for the grumpy old man

next door to shovel.

The bare trees

are far in the distance,

naked an cold

dead

yet it is a trick,

because this is just their slumber

to be reborn again

in spring.

And farther away is the white sky,

no clouds

no sun

no blue

except for white,

just like the white of a canvas.

It is the canvas of the painter,

the Great Painter,

the Great Creator,

who handcrafted the Great Portrait.

It is a masterpiece, this portrait,

but is it just a portrait,

a peaceful scenery

to hang up on the wall

of the galaxy?

Or maybe

it is just a scene of winter

through my window.