Bright sun glances off branches
Layered in snow.
Squirrels darting up and down
Precipitate miniature avalanches
As without a sound
Snow falls on snow.
The ground beneath
Sleeps in frost,
A glowing blanket-throw,
Insuring Winter slumber.
Snowflakes without number
Tell the moments of the season.
Know the sunbeams
Dance toward spring
In their daily brightening.
Winter seems devoid:
Bleak, bare, stark predominating.
Brown and ashey white comprise
Icy puddles, dwindling mounds of snow.
Yet too there is beauty in Winter,
Though not the usual sort.
Unused to its Oriental style
We call that beautiful which fills the eye
Lush Monets-bouquets of color,
Sensuous delights demanding attention.
Yearning for these one well might miss
This special gift: Minus excess,
Winter presents the slim, spare sweetness
Of a single stroke of ink that melts into the eye.
Apple trees in the orchard lift
Their silent limbs, a hieroglyph.
Withered brown fruit clings here and there,
And a leaf or two the wind has spared.
Cold chills bones and branches too,
The sunlit hours are too few.
But folded buds hold life asleep
For Spring has promises to keep.
Within the orchard, life lies still
Until the sunshine wakens will
Then buds swell, burst, and welcome bee
And life again sings loud and free.