From My Window
crisp and white, the scene remains.
Fields asleep in drifts of white,
safe inside from cold chilled blight.
Footprints tracked across the ground,
leaving shadowed spaces.
When the flurries start to fly,
steps will leave no traces.
Barren branches, empty vines,
days held still in frozen time.
Underneath the life is sleeping,
blanketed in coldness creeping.
Brilliant grounds reflect the light,
soft and still and quiet as night.
Quickly air begins to blow,
whipping white clouds to and fro.
Drifts pile deep and then go deeper,
burying the ground,
Creatures nesting in their burrows,
making not a sound.
As the winds mount even harder,
Flying wild against the sky,
Watching crackling fires dancing,
as the air goes whistling by.
Shiver, bundled warm inside,
drinking warmth from china cup.
Watching from my window calmly,
As the storm comes sailing up.
