It starts as nothing more than air.

The curl of frozen breath or a

hint of smoke collapsed on the wind

icing latent tress laid bare.

Carried through winter's dark womb

of hard silver frosts. Muted snow

a million silent lights, sharp

in the stiffening cold, a harp-

song of hope. Until suddenly

it's obvious. Obvious like

the moon, full on a cloudless night,

through the pale singing Winter’s song.