I\'m walking. Snowdrifts. The dead forest juts out approaches
With motionless branches into the depths of the ether,
And the sun\'s cardinal purple cope rather
Spreads underfoot. And the hot crust crunches.
Here the blue spruce trees stand tufted, every inches
Covered in a papal pluvial blanket of snow.
Nature sleeps. I walk, tiredness wearily slow
Shaking off the ceremonial attire from the branches
Let\'s slowly descend into a deep ravine,
Where the bridge blackens, icy with cold.
There, purple pines piously serve cort
The Episcopal Mass over the stream divine.
The