Washing Dishes

I struggle when trying to describe the pine and hemlock in our woods layered with snow. Boughs stoop low, ready to spring at the tap of a walking stick, puffs of snow shimmering like shattered glass. In the morning after a heavy fall, when the snow is still fluffy and unpacked, the needled trees look as if they withstood a storm of soap bubbles blown from the kitchen sink. Globules and globes of froth coagulate on their limbs. I feel like washing my hands or leaping into a valley filled with bubble bath snow. But this description never fits the story I'm trying to write. The tone and imagery are acres away from the theme. What in my life can be connected to soap bubbles? I like this picture, though, and I continue walking.