Frozen Roses

I walk into a white city. There are gardens in some ancient mansions where December's wintery breath is clouding the pond, frosting the last rosebuds, obscuring summer's memory. Stoats play in the snow beetween statues, goldfinches fly on frozen fountains. With musk and white cotton snow under the feet, I pick up an icy rose and can really feel that winter has come to town. A Beautiful December.