The Mountain in Winter

Short poem touching on nature and the imagination.

I find it odd

That on the mountain in Winter

My perspective above the treeline

Remains obscured, not by trees

But fog, snow, cloud, mist

Impenetrable only by the blowing winds

Shifting currents of air

Offering but meager glimpses of the horizon

Before me

I imagine the valley

Resting, the dead-seeming brown

Of hibernating trees

And trees dying of a beetle plague

Coated, purely whitened in desolate beauty

By snow that shrouded my eyes

Yet opened my imagination

Author's Note

Very interested in any feedback I can get.