What if snow were purple?
What if snow were purple or pink
or robin’s egg blue
painting every spruce and fir with a pastel palette
pleasing perhaps but pert too pert?
Or what if snow were burnt umber or raw sienna
or van dyke brown
a seamless segue from November’s leaf-strewn landscape
to the sucking sepia sloughs of March?
But snow is white wondrously winsomely white
winter dressed like a bride
earth adorned in beauty and light
a promise made and kept.