Into Winter
The trees will shortly sleep; for all we know
may never wake, such is the bitter hold
of winter. Leafless limbs soon leased by crow
an echo of their canopy of gold;
will whistle mournful, blown by arctic breath.
The Aspen, Oak, the Maple, Dogwood, Beech
all whisper this is rest; 'tis not yet death.
Walk past us still, look up, remember each
glorious in their majesty of fall;
the sunshine yellow, purple, fiery red.
Be not beguiled by winter's mournful call;
keep memories of color in your head.
The grey-white cold will surely soon dispel
as spring green blossoms bloom to summer's swell.
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