No more lichen
The ice belongs to Tom
Moss never looks as good as I think it will
Proceed carefully with the salt on the sidewalks
The crystalline lawn is uncharted territory
Go with that
If getting close isn't in the cards
Don't waste time with the zoom
The textured brick, the weathered sign, the old wood grain
will have to wait for tomorrow
The iPhone camera doesn't like the dark
Yes to the snowdrifts at dusk, the footprint, the muddy bike
spokes
Skip the old leaves, the pile of sticks, the overturned pot
That frozen puddle is so last year
There are days so cold
That no majestic evergreen, shorn branches or virgin
snowfall
Is worth the fumbling, stiff fingers, the hot breath in the
frigid air
Come February there will be a fork in the road
The scavengers will alight on the pinecones or the Spartan
grass
Go ahead and change directions
There's always more where that came from
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