Leaves bound around my feet as I trail in the falling snow.
They skirt across my path, darting by me playfully,
as if under careful instruction from the dormant squirrel or an off-duty robin.
Huddled sparrows adorn each branch,
their wings – shivering leaves, keeping the tree company.
Their eyes – as numerous as stars,
follow me down the path, making sure I don’t break
Her illusion, Her polar mirage, Her dormant play.
A failed re-enactment that is in itself beautiful.
Wear your disguise a little longer, I think before retreating to the fire.
Quite soon you won’t have to pretend.