Still of Winter Morn
winter tree reflections,
like cross hatched pencil on linen,
as snow edges, grass stalks few between,
and crunch underfoot, that white wet floor,
like rice-bubble pops, sharp and crisp,
as mist begins to rise,
like heaven dropped in for tea,
and light a faded golden hue,
defuses through the haze.
Winter morn so still and silent,
frozen hearts of seasons knell,
and life adorned by plumes of white
and diamond glistening,
icy drips on every branch and bow;
and breath a billowing moisture frozen,
each step a weighted chilled affront,
all this in morning's wonderland,
caught by winters deep caress,
her pain and beauty blessed.
And quietly I hear the trees still breathing,
as if in hibernation, in naked repose,
and all in sombre melancholic hope,
filled with halcyon days revisited,
held so clearly
for when winter relents her scope,
and sun bares all to day, to melt away
this icy beauteous burden,
that keeps us by fireside,
hunched and layered, in hope.
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