Still Morning Chill

 I'm not a poet, except perhaps by a technicality of having written what I'm calling a poem just now.  This idea and imagery was inspired by comments made over coffee this morning with my folks about the crisp and almost eerily still morning we all walked out into.  So I thought I'd try to convey the scene in a couple stanzas of verse.

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Still, so still

And quiet, but not just quiet

No sound at all

Bringing me to a halt

As my crunching footsteps

Seem blasphemous

In such a sanctuary

White, pure white

And unbroken, smooth undulation

Of pristine landscape

Bringing a teary squint

To slow-adjusting eyes

Freezing in place

Lest it crash to the earth