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.