Winter Walk

I walk the garden run
   in the icy chill of winter sun,
 where flowers once bloomed in their colorful glow
   but now sleep silently beneath the snow;
clear and ever on the move alone
   the waterfall taps briskly on each stone
 and down to the bottom lay
   small fry fish swimming lightly in play
 through the piled fallen leaves;
there is a hush in the skeleton of trees
  neither bird nor squirrel stirs a frown
 as the ground blushes darkened brown
  grass beige and dying quiet on the earth below;
chilled winds rise and freely blow
  fir trees and yellow-green brush wave hello
 and gently ease up the daffodils of spring
  waiting patient to play their song and sing;
leaves till curl and tussle in the winds
  and northeast bluster loudly rings
 but on the horizon, hope springs eternal
  and winter walk is a seasonal kernel
 as flowers rise within my mental poetry journal.

winterwritingrhyme

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