When the Ice Man Comes
The signs are all left behind, when the cold winds blow,
merciless drafts then descend, upon the earth, below.
A white canopy spreads, across the landscape, wide,
snow flakes flutter in breezes, as small creatures hide.
Curling smoke of chimneys, swirl, above rooftops, high,
in December, to leave its mark, to melt away, by and by.
The Ice Man comes to greet the soil, a sickle in his hand,
big limbs fall, in great heaps, beneath trees that stand.
A time for rest and happy dreams, now to see us through,
an envisioning of tomorrow's time, of our things to do.
The Ice Man flees all too soon, yet, signs he leaves behind,
icicles line in rows, on the fence, his presents, to remind.