Winter’s song like silver bells
Rings cold and diamond bright,
Echoing clear from glorious dawn
And murmuring into radiant night.
It is the song of silence
Of snowfall thick and deep,
Of whispers soft in waiting woods
Where summer’s memory sleeps.
It is the song of reckless joy
When skies are crystal blue above,
When jaunty breezes laughing free
Shake bursts of snow from frozen tree.
It is the song of artistry:
Of paintings in the drifts…
And windowpanes, like crystal fine,
Are etched with ice and etched with time.
Poetry is far from being my main form of artistic expression, and I admire those poets of the past who left such a gorgeous legacy of verse. It is something I enjoy dabbling in from time to time, but hardly a written form I’m particularly comfortable in. Maybe that will change.