The Writers' Circle

When winter draws its august breath
to blow;

When it charges clouds with crystals
and decks trees and bushes
with icy bristles;

When it sheets every little brittle leaf
with frozen pearls
that glisten -

Hearts such as ours
are at their balmiest

And our ears
are readiest to listen.

Winter is an orchestra
with icicles for flutes
and sheets of sleet for crotchets;

When winter draws its flautist breath,
it is only to render fluid music
in the form of snow;

As it breathes in,
closing its eyes
to concentrate and listen,

We close our own eyes,
breathe in,

And concentrate
and listen too.

(January 2006)