A Winter Missed

I watch them travel as they pass,
With backs hunched and heads hung low;
Indebted to this window glass,
For me, the chilled, white winds don't blow.

I can see the art of Winter:
The cottoned limbs of evergreen
Lined across the temple's center -
The only objects carved between

The pallid roof and icy floor.
They hold the Architect's vast dome
Of Pietrasanta stone so pure
It shames the shambled halls of Rome.

The Architect's last, gentle touch
Now wipes away the marble dust,
Which disappears without so much
A whisper to the dust-bleached crust.

And as the final flakes descend,
They lift their heads and understand -
Their burdened journey nears an end.
The masterpiece in which they stand

Relieves them of the chilled, white wind.
I'm locked out, and they within.