WINTER'S SONG

.

Just beyond the end of autumn
I hear the winter's call
and he arrives to slay the leaves
which, stubborn, clung through fall.

The land once green and full of life
has now grown cold and sere
and harvest's colors once so rife
no longer are seen here.

As white and silver cloak descends
to cover silent frozen land
air turns cold as all warmth ends
and quietens all at hand.

Yet in this land grown frigid, bleak
a subtle beauty lies
seen only by the few who seek
solitude beneath blue skies.

For here and there for those who look,
in sheltered cove, near quiet brook,
the brilliant reds of bird and berry
are often seen by those who tarry.

And although life seems to have fled
from hoary woods that look so dead
the slower pulse of lives still beat
though stealthy now instead of fleet.

This muted land so chill and bare
is still the home to fox and hare
and running ground to buck and doe;
an outdoor stage for jay and crow.

Although this season's cold and still
and death is all it seems to bring
if not for the winter's chill
who'd care if ever there came spring ?