The earth slumbers under a blanket white
The wind and the trees in lively debate
In tones I feel but I can’t comprehend
I make the snow talk with every step I tred

The bright yellow sun of mid afternoon shines
Framed by a crisp clear and bluest blue sky
Over distant gray hills marking a rough border
Nearer at hand windswept and dazzling white

I’ve come to a field that I know very well
In summer corn is the crop and high it grows
To the left just past the wall an apple tree
And on the right to balance it out a small house

The field has stalks of maize risen from below 
Like drunken skyscrapers in row after row
While elsewhere the wind has been busy writing
But what has been written I do not know

The apple tree is a wild tree with small fruit
Still in its upper branches can a few be seen
While the lower branches have been stripped clean
I can see the trails and tracks of regular visits

The house though in stark contrast lies empty
The roof swayback and covered in deep snow
The chimney is silent and the panes frosted
Shutters awry and the path covered in snow

I notice a solitary crow sitting in the tree
I look at him and he head cocked back at me
I cannot tell for sure but I think we both agree
That this is no longer a place for men to be

And yet something moves me and I clamber through
Snow knee deep and crusty to the houses door
I breathe and wipe away a spot of frost
I look in to see just what has been lost

Afterwards I pause in thought back on the lane
Thinking in years not counted as very many
The field will not look balanced at all
The apple tree will be unbalanced by the houses fall