Winter.
She
is the finer artist.
For her palette,
no adornment
of leaf.
No riches of color.
She must etch frozen earth,
burn glow of sun
onto naked fingerling branches.
Some,
self-concerned, are
blind to her beauty.
Trite,
yes,
but beauty
is
in the eye of the one
who beholds.
In the contest of sister seasons,
winter wins
the trophy
of my heart.
