The light canopy overhead rattles in the morning wind,
shaking like an old pile of kindling.
The thin sheet of snow that began accumulating overnight
now falls silently to the earth ahead of me.
The sky, a painted image of gray, stretches endlessly
beyond the hibernating deciduous trees.

An intruder on the quiet world I around me,
I continue my walk.

Crunch
Crunch

My footsteps interrupting the hushed landscape,
I come upon something out of place:

A solitary gate, enclosed in frost.

I stop, peering at the still figure.
It stands about five feet tall and twice that wide.
Its hinges, a cold iron, now appear rusted with age.

And yet, holding the gate together in two pieces,
rests a stainless padlock.

I approach the lonely guardian of the trail
with a passive curiously, wondering for who
and what it once stood for.
I run my hand over its silky surface, feeling the cold
crawl through my thin gloves.

The transparent layer of ice that lines the railing reflects
the meager sunlight that finds it way
through the silver expanse above.

The delicate touch of the falling snow brushes my cheek,
serving to remind me that time doesn’t stand still even here.
Stuffing my hands back into my coat,
I plant my face down into chest, patiently waiting for the numbness
in my nose to fade.

I step around the edge of the gate, defeating its sole purpose,
and with one lasting look,
  I continue my walk.