Snow on the Crepe Myrtle

I lean my forehead against the cold glass at the head of our bed, gazing out into the night. The sky is inky black, and yet the snow seems to have a light of its own, mirroring the twinkling of the stars. It's breathtakingly beautiful.

The snow hangs heavy on the trees, encumbering the branches,
Causing them to sway slowly, laden in unfamiliar ways.
Like me.
A pregnant mother who moves differently with child,
Heavily, more slowly,
With a different gait, a quiet dance in the night.
The branches bow, holding the snow and ice that glisten and grasp them tightly.
Tomorrow, with the sunlight, this will change.
Tonight I watch and wonder.