Can anyone provide their ideas on this poem?

Snow, you create a country of ghosts.
To you perhaps our souls might migrate,
you are the land of the souls that confronts us, seeming eternal yet of course not so.
We rise in the morning to shrouded trees, to houses with fairy tale windows,
to hills voluminous and novel,
to a fresh country without signposts. This silence, where does it come from? This holy quietness.
This blankness without the individual, this communal burial.
Magician, you have cast your handkerchief over us. We are lost in the folds.
We struggle to find the road again
Where is our destination?
Or shall we holiday in childhood with our red gloves and jumpers plunging up to our waists
in the gravity of the adult.
Or as in a mirror do we see our souls so whitely staring back at us
with a conspicuous sparkle,
the doubleness of death.
Yet it is not so, it is not eternal. Suddenly the hills become water, the fragile windows are cracked and the green land appears somehow stagy and distant:
after that soul-knowledge
the body with its smells and veins, our undisguisable home.

Its nice..Very nice..

A great write.
Nice imagery and emotion shown.
Great terminology used. Flowed really well.

A great write.
Nice imagery and emotion shown.
Great terminology used. Flowed really well.

Snow while beautiful and all he /she envision comes to an end and spring returns.

Don't take it personal but I think when you post someone's poem you're supposed to give the name of the author.

This is a very good poem. But I am going to show you how this could be even better if you cut out some of if (not too much) and added some spacing. See if you like it. Nothing right or wrong in poetry, just preferences.

Snow, you create a country of ghosts.
Our souls might migrate, you are the land of the souls.

We rise in the morning to shrouded trees, to houses
with fairy tale windows, hills voluminous and novel,
a country without signposts.

This silence, where does it come from? This holy quietness.
This blankness without the individual, communal burial.

Magician, you have cast your handkerchief over us.
We are lost in the folds.

Where is our destination? Shall we holiday in childhood with our red gloves and jumpers plunging up to our waists in the gravity
of the adult.

Or stand and look at our souls so whitely staring back at us
with a conspicuous sparkle, the doubleness of death.

Suddenly the hills become water, the fragile windows are cracked
and the green land appears [you could even end here]

The body with its smells and veins, our undisguisable home.