Green growing-things stand fast asleep beneath the churning sky. A breath of storm arrived that morn', a gusty, cloudy sigh. Fitfully, uncertainly, the snow begins to fall, its crystal down a formal gown on sapling straight and tall. Raw the norther's voice becomes in squalls and bitter frost. Above the gale of icy hail the sky itself is lost. Long into the black of night the blizzard's will is bent, 'tween limbs and leaves the wroth wind weaves a tale of harsh torment. Sharp upon the distant hill arrives the edge of dawn. Storm's icy reign begins to wane as snowdrifts gape and yawn. Silent flee the ragged clouds and so begins the day so short and cold it soon grows old and fades to solemn gray. Beneath the sky the growing-things now sleep in blankets white. Their tranquil dreams still filled with beams of springtime's wholesome light.
December 30, 1999
