Winter Will Come

Her laugh swings back and forth Like a feather in a winter day. A wind blow coming from north Brings back cold from faraway, Her smile blooms like a snowdrop, Too soon for a snow storm. The tiller will reap the first crop, The last swan still unborn. When will the roses wither? A waterfall ends in the hill, sparrows bathing hither, A wheel spinning on the mill. Her petals veiling the ground Will silence spring’s sound.