The sun silently bends over the curvature of earth.
Light is scattered,
off a once-was crystalline water
to a once-is lifecycle of ice.
By morning all is coated with a thick white.
Filling every volcanic notch
blade of grass, meadow flower, eroded rock.
The spaces between
I am told all the colors of light add up to white.
I am told even the lanky trees and roots
are repainted at an angle.
I learn ice is not transparent, but translucent.
Its color created from collection of light
and a change of direction.
As soundless as snow piles its velvet flakes,
her shadows surface against what is above.
A blue-grey hue.
A hushed revolution of azure paint,
a rebirth of pattern stained
the color of sky.