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 ~
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