I drink in fields of white,
stippled with stalks,
like stubbled beards.
How they gleam
in the morning's beams,
polished and pure.
No sled ridges or shoe
prints mar the pristine beauty
of fresh-fallen snow.

Memories of other fields
studded with bluebonnets
flit through my mind,
silent bells nodding
in the summer breeze.

All is gift–white or blue,
dappled or untouched,
each is sun-splashed
with splendor. My heart
delights to behold
each distinctive landscape,
aglimmer with glory.