February in New Hampshire

I just came across a poem I wrote when I was away from New Hampshire for a while and missing winter. I'm just in time, because it's called "February":


A desolate wasteland of white,
Of wind and of snow and of light--
The wind in the trees on a hill,
The snow now at rest from its flight,
And everywhere--everywhere--light.

A universe barren and bare,
Where man cannot see for the glare
And barely can breathe for the chill.
He stands 'midst the elements there.
And they? Neither see him, nor care.