A layer of white dew—snow’s
poorer cousin—cover the grass.
Vines and leaves dusted white
and burned limp.
Cautious neighbors had covered precious shrubs
in tarps—colorful balloons dotting the lawns.
We bundle in layers of clothing
as we climb into icebox cars
whose glass windows are caked with ice
and have to be rinsed by warm water.
A layer of ice float on puddles
by the road.
Naked grapevines intertwine
like white electrical wires.
Cows patiently nibble grass
in the white fields,
waiting for the raising sun
to thaw the land.
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