Poetry

Winter

Irene Conway

In winter frost, no death I see
Though limbs shorn of their leaves may be,
More clearly through the trees now smile
The lips of blue December skies.

'Tis true the rolling meadows green
Have lost most of their emerald sheen,
But tans and browns and white so striking
Have always been quite to my liking.

The stream in summer leaped and danced,
But winter holds it in a trance.
Silent, it dares no move to make
For fear the icy spell to break.

The summer stars a sultry glow
Show to the gardens far below,
But winter stars appear to sparkle,
They sputter, and spark, and fairly crackle.

January 2, 2004


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