Fiddleheads On the River Walls

I know it's there somewhere beyond the clouds, beyond the snow which gently floats and falls on arborvitae's shoulders like a shawl and o're the face of summer with a shroud. Above where prayerful birches rise unbowed; and stand once more among the proud and tall, no longer will the season be forestalled once the gifts of nature are endowed. Across the forest floor the winter's chased by waves of green now stirring in the frost - impatient youths who gasp first springtime breaths and proudly flaunt the colors they replace, while buried hints of Autumn are embossed beneath the ice that feeds upon their death...