The frost has etched the green grass white.
Lavender clouds chased a red rimmed moon.
The maples branches writhe with fright
and I'm alone in a cold, cold room.
A light snow lifts the nascent gloom.
Moon caste blue shadows sparkle, now dance,
as twigs skitter across the flurried lawn.
They seem to twirl on point, they prance.
I watch through the pane to the dance drawn.
The bleakness of night is now redrawn.
A symphony of woodwinds flute,
reeds whistle and brush a rousing beat,
deep in my heart a delight roots;
I'm warmed now by a scene so sweet,
snow for Christmas what could compete?