A Winter Day's Poem_Word Pictures

Winter's creative powers are immense and snatch the brush and pencil from my hand and yet in its silence it whispers to me the words it does not have.   So I wrote a poem.  Here tis:


This is the winter of my childhood dreams.
White lawns rising
Tree heights diminishing
A once flat landscape, now rolling hills to look
Through mounded valleys I drive.
I walk narrow paths.
Icicles drape the eaves. Sensual in their forms they bend and yield to the wind,
as crystal, tight rope acrobats perform on the drooping, ugly wires
strung from house to house.
A marvel
I shall look upon them differently, 
now that I have spied their true purpose.
Homes, swaddled in warm, icy blankets
thrown and tossed about
Nights, the full moon glows, purple shadows, hot stars, the crunch of snow beneath my feet, steam words of appreciation from my lips form
Mornings the birds sing as if it were spring.
Could they be mistaken?
Alas the birds know that spring’s beauty is only reputation.
They sing their song to winter’s beauty, its artfulness of precipitation, changing, frolic forms, pure air to breathe.
As the snowflakes gently fall, I am in the snow globe into which I once gazed
Now, I am a part.
Safely enclosed in a frozen, constant world until the glass will be broken by the jealousy of warm temperatures.