'Season of the Cold Clouds'
'tis Winter. Colder blasts the warring winds.
The bite of rains make daggers hook our bones.
If not for calendars, we would forsake
our hope of Spring and know our times would end.
'tis Winter. Clouds come down and are the Storm.
Thick Limbs do break, their needles thread the air.
The naked blusters dress in leaves that dance
with little things alighted on the ground
'tis Winter. Cluster now the snowdrift high.
The pointed crystals drop as ice from eaves.
The Wolves howl loudly to their packs in dens.
The pines explode from living saps that freeze.
The Sun may hide and Goddess Earth may sleep
But we with hearts will wake remembering.
(c) 2010 G.Robin Smith all rights reserved