Beyond the glass snowfall is luminous.
Winter burns like a lamp upon the sill.
The old house creaks in deference to the wind.
Kind eyes affirm that cold cannot come in.
Time for the robins? If you say so, Friend.
Praise for the woodfires that have warmed our past.
Red firelight paints the ceiling with itself.
The joy of our mere being is alive.
We do not yet concede the mood to spring,
The scent of lilacs and the young, green trees.
For us bare branches are articulate,
They tell us all we ever need to know.
Copyright,2008, Sandra Fowler