-- The Spirit of Winter --

John Herlihy

The season of winter conveys a spirit of its own,

From the blinding gale of the North Wind blown.

Icicles hang from house rafters speared to a point,

Morning dew falls gently prairie grasses to anoint.

The snow-covered landscape lay quietly sleeping,

The surrounding whiteness without color weeping.

The lake frozen deep in the heart of encrusted ice,

Light shadows lay under overhang of a precipice.

A mysterious charm lures the unsuspecting face,

Into the deadly clutches of its lethal embrace.

Still, there is a fragility to winter if we take stock,

Beautiful days, pure and icy, like crystal in rock.

Garlands of frost festoon the tips of the pine trees,

That break silence as chimes bending on knees.

A cold and savage season characteristically still,

The snow beginning to fall by its own act of will.

Alone, the flakes can do little but lay quietly down,

In unison, they transform a landscape all around.

What seems forlorn grows into peaceful beauty,

The sober heart of winter with its air of mystery.

Buried emotions that lie deep soon begin to sprout,

Into buds and sprigs and blooms that lay all about.

The blanket of snow melts away as earth rejoices,

The river gives way to lilting smiles and soft voices,

Shiny, rigid icicles will shed their frozen tears,

No one doubts winter’s power to stir our fears.

The spirit of winter is not always what it seems,

We need to dig deeper to know what it means.

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(c) John Herlihy 4 August 2020