Winter

Gray is the season that withers blossoms dulled by satin frost how they sadly fall cruel chill, it breaks them all rest, rest immortal doves while winter feigns treasures lost. Crystal brooks still as dusk mirror figures warm at heart oaks over icy knolls sprawling old souls flutter, flutter leafless arches for that single spark of life to start. Blushing through frozen woods morning hints at splendor, frail a starling in the snow sleeping on her bough wake, wake feathered angel sing sweet trills of the nightingale. ~ Luther Lynton Seahand ~