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Winter
So still - I cannot hear a sound.
The silent snow our house has bound.
But this is not a dreadful plight
When all the world is robed in white.
Soon all the snow will turn to slush
And we will lose this magic hush.
The country will in uproar be:
Prepare the pudding! Trim the tree!
The Wild Hunt, their boist'rous ride,
Will sweep across the countryside,
And with their visit blessings bring.
But once they've passed our ears will ring.
It shan't be long before we tire
Of long dark evenings by the fire,
Of playing games and mending weeds,
And dreaming of brave summer deeds.
But 'tis a blessing once again
To have this time with friends and kin.
To far-flung tasks we'll soon report
Until the days again grow short.
©
Analemma McKee-Schwenke
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Image: Free clipart from Tripod.