Storm

Storm

Brush laden with Titanium white,
the master pointillist in the sky
paints,
dot-dab, dot-dab.

One snow drop after another
kisses the earthen canvas,
until the path is buried,
the branches bowed.
dot-dab, dot-dab,

Winter birds huddle in the cedar.
On the porch, the old bell
chimes in the wind,
a slow, somber tone,
dong, dong, dong, dong.

At dusk,
the painter
caps the tube of paint, scrapes the
pallet, cleans her brush
in the swift immortal stream,
satisfied and complete.

an exercise to use these four words: bell, kisses, immortal, branches. Otherwise I would not have used the word "immortal" which was a difficult one. Too heavy.