The Gift of Winter
Winter has come, once again,
leaving a white carpet on the countryside,
Beckoning rows of dark trees stand naked,
lifting bare limbs into the sky,
Black birds circle, then lightly land, to perch,
and to survey the scene below,
A solemn owl calls from the woods,
to make a protest of this sudden cold.
A lonesome red fox scurries about its morning chores,
as a mole darts, to hide,
Trout lie motionless in the frozen stream,
peering up through shimmering ice.
Frogs and snakes all curl in soil far below,
their hibernation has now begun.
Distant crows greet a rising yellow sun;
beckoning the warmth, their voices ring.
A cabin sits like a winter's portrait,
its curling chimney smoke mingles with the winds.
The rail fence lined with whiteness,
stands as a barrier to the season's onslaught.
An empty flower pot, sways in the breeze,
as if to ask, how long until a warmer Spring.
I stand, and hear, see, and feel, knowing that,
I appreciate, yet, long for winter's retreat.
Beyond our sight, and far over the hills,
down in the glade, there is a warming nook,
Here, a sanctuary for the mind,
in its peace and tranquil arms, is found acceptance.
A beauty there, this place of recompense,
to bring a sense of a hope for tomorrow,
To lick the wounds and find a sleep,
the healing balm, and the cure for all that seek.
More by this Author
To my father and his loving care all of those years when I was young.
I write of the very special time at Christmas when my father and I went out into the country to find a cedar tree and what it meant to our entire family.
When will it be too late?