The brittle stems of Queen Anne's Lace
reduced to barren winter bone;
a hoarfrost Ermine coat embrace,
impaled in soil that's turned to stone.
The flowers now are wicker cups,
wear Bowler's hats of purest white;
the snowflakes that they interrupt
await the wind; resume their flight.
The Junco in the Prairie Grass,
drad colors blending, stem and snow;
his flitting business come to pass
without a glimpse of style, or show.
White crystal mist; the morning still,
a cold and colorless display;
the fenceposts marching up the hill
like soldiers, slowly fade away.
This day in its entirety
constructed thus to fit the mood,
cabin bound and winter weary,
must you in my lament intrude?
From deep within the Cedar tree
in blazing red from cap to tail,
you interrupt my woe-is-me,
insure my pensive mood will fail!