Like heaven’s light from above the altar,
The beautiful snow folds gently and harsh.
Inward it cracks but never it falters,
I’m to the sun what it is to my heart.
And with a blanket sea of fragile death,
It far outshines the silver trim of hope
The sky impels with every ocean breath,
Who in the first place shed her feathers blue.
Cold prairie homesteads crouch low in their tiles
Like rodents frozen on the kitchen floor.
The grout called roads shall ever weave their wiles
‘Tween those fetal men so hungry and poor.
And when she melts, expose their auburn coats
Whose eyes with greed and pain glare not with hope.
It's so refreshing to see a new poem in perfect iambic pentameter.