Birches are bare silhouettes in the air
the frost is so cold that it burns
a spider web's gold in the sun’s pale glare
asleep until Summer returns.
Jackets of white that have formed in the night
the air is a shock to the lungs
the tinkling mock of the fresh stalactites
as sharp as a rapier’s tongue.
Cuddled up under a star-strewn wonder
the firelight glows flickering flames
and buried below, Summer’s blossoms in slumber
awaiting till Spring calls their names.
The leaves drifting soundlessly float to the ground
quite like boats on a to and fro sea
the multi-hued coat that is woven around
whispers “Winter is Coming” to me.
pictures are local to southern Illinois poem is from king poetry