The rustle of cold colors whirl and shout
and in their dance, a warning to revere.
A halo’s on the mountain tops about
and breezy waves of solemn shades appear.
Soft yellows made among gray clouds, aloft
and whisper to the shiv`ring wintry scene:
“I am the cold, blue howl that bellows oft
and scurries down your icy, trickling stream”.
Then comes insanity; bold groans below
among the forest faces painted white.
I hear the branch’s thoughts that break; bestow
a heaviness of heart in fading light.
Here burns the ghost of winter’s bleak return;
repetitive, yet for our souls we yearn.