The snow glistens with a plastic sheen of ice
Under the monochromatic Ansel Adams moon.
Trees silhouette their bare spires against the cathedral sky,
And the crunch of snow beneath our boots heralds
The first steps to paradise.
We caress the backbone of the hill with our footsteps
And our voices under this open sky are a song of praise
To the invisible real God who inhabits this place.
The cold wind opens a small space in my heart.
There is not death here
Only a re-beginning of life.