EIGHT LINES OF WINTER, I

Snow drops a scrim over the lake,
softens every outline.
The roads become sepia-tone
caked with dirt and salt.
Behind glass, a small white cat
watches flutters of grey and black
juncos and chickadees
at their perennial cocktail party.

EIGHT LINES OF WINTER, II

Snow drops a clouded scrim,
softens every outline.
The roads become sepia-tone.
Snow drops a clouded scrim
on flutters of grey and black
at their perennial cocktail party.
Snow drops. A clouded scrim
softens every outline.

I haven't posted a new poem here in a while. As part of an ongoing effort to be better at self-care (not always the easiest thing for mothers or for clergy), I'm trying to take Tuesdays as self-care days -- which for me often means poetry-writing days.

I have two versions of this one on my desk right now. I can't decide which I prefer. The first has more specifics ("caked with dirt and salt," "juncos and chickadees.") The second works with a known poetic form (the triolet, though mine has neither rhyme nor meter.) Do you like one better than the other?

Image source: my flickr stream.