I am of winter born
No other season sings to me
With a voice so soft, so quiet and still,
It soothes and bids me sleep.
A cold moon lights the night
With drifting clouds of silver cotton
The forest creaks and groans
With weary wood soon rotten.
And when the spring emerges
From the harsh winter’s wash,
The forest’s limbs rung clean, dried out
New buds grow out of the frost.
It is time for me to wait again
For a glimpse of the cloud soft sky
For the sun must do its work
And so, I shall shade my eyes.
DN
Agree, beautiful
Beautiful