Whose woods these are I think I know.
Just yesterday Husband mowed the lawn, and the helichrysum, left in the container for winter interest, was still alive.
The autumn pumpkins sport more than just frost.
No drinking from the birdbath for now.
The pine branches bow with the extra weight . . .
Unlike the howling blizzards of January, this November snow fell silently and gently through the night, gilding the trees and the garden in shades of white on white.
No photo, no poem can re-create the magical beauty of this morning.