Purple, yellow green,

Are the leaves to be seen,

Fluttering down so gently,

On a cold winters dream,

The song of the wind,

So crisp and sharp,

Resound from the strings,

Of a steely, frigid harp,

The ground turns hard,

And the blooms lie still,

While the waters churn slow,

By the old proffers mill,

The warming sun,

Now held at bay,

Looms dim and cool,

So far, far away,

We bundle and cuddle,

And together  we share,

Memories and thoughts,

Of days bountiful and fair,

Beside the hearth,

The flame crackles and snaps,

Soothed by our love,

Till winter does lapse.