Wanda Daugherty Poet Prose Poetry

Winter

Winter
 
Then it is winter,
When the cold, like the icy hands of death,
Enfold the earth in sleep and rest.

When the cold, crisp air bits at your flesh,
And the bare frosty trees stand like giant tombstones,
Against the dark, foreboding sky.

All the earth joins in sweet repose.
When the snow, like a velvet shroud,
Enfolds it in silent sleep.

It is Winter,
The earth is waiting like a simple mortal soul;
In quiet slumber.

Waiting for the resurrection and life anew.
Quiet and melancholy.
Yet within is a promise.

Promise of new life and beauty;
To burst forth at the budding of a flower.
At the glitter of a raindrop.

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