Winter
Whiten the ground O freaky freezing frost. Crunch under thy feet, in a feverishly flowing fountain of bristly bleak crystals. Boughs glimmering with water trapped in it's flow. Solidified in the hands of a angered sprites chillingly tough temprate touch. Leaves linger no more where green grew and glistened and shards now grow their jagged spikes. Icy dust blows from a sky engulfed in a gloom of grey. Cut me to marrow air of wonderfully wicked cold, crisp and lacking in fragrance for the flower blooms no more. Dark your days become O world as I seek warmth from the golden yellow sun. But the orb visits less each shortening day and his radiance does little. The brook flows under a sheet of frozen glass, and the birds find no song. The night comes forth ever sooner. And the screech of the owl breaks the silence of the lonely dim wood. Sounds of emptiness. The cricket sings no song. And the only scent on the wind is the pine sighing in destitute for the withered oak to join chorus but the oak finds no voice. The wolf howls seeking romance under the wide wildly waxing white moon.
Copyright © Daniel Tate | Year Posted 2012
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