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.