The Works of Jeleth Cannan

The Snowfields

North of nowhere, south of waters crescent blue lies a solemn plain.

A blanket of white draped gently across green pillows and brown sheets,

Dark threads of bark and leaf dot the immaculate surface,

Spun by the boldest of weavers and laced during times of work and play

A veiled sun entwining them with tenacity and ambition.

The powdery white blanket worries not about season nor light.

In winter it hardens as steel tempered in a fire-lined forge, crunching beneath iron-toed boots,

Come spring it is washed anew, allowed to grow soft and fresh as royal linens,

The welcoming summer sunlight dances upon the crystal surface like an army of shining dewdrops

But in fall it marches back to the long-cold forge, lulled into a frozen slumber by lengthening nights.

As sure as times endless flow, the weavers return each year to patch their enchanted work,

Wielding thread-looped icicles to form a bleached tapestry of nature's bountiful purity,

Gently coaxing the clouds down from their blue canopy to kiss the soft mattress below,

Spreading endless white fluff as lint found on a sheet left too long to dry,

Weaving it together into layered drifts so thick that no sun kissed hand could melt it away.