The winter forest pulls me closer.
I see leafless branches sagging
under the weight of long-held snow.
Simple harshness captures me, like music.
Trees no longer stand monolithic;
They are now just brushstrokes
on God's cold, white canvas.
I sit with my pad and pens.
My face is red and my hands shake.
I feel the snow-chilled breeze
against my side, as if He's telling me
to get out of the way
so this still life can be perfect.
I consider walking away from the scene,
until a sparrow lands on a nearby branch,
freeing it from the canvas.
My sin no greater than his,
I pull out my pens and
in a few strokes,
trap the bird
of my own.