If I sit here long enough,
by this double window framing
a partial view of a stark winter day,
I will eventually see a field of
yellow and red flowers, a pond
reflecting the sky's blue and
the sky itself with wisps of clouds
imperceptibly moving out of the frame,
leaving behind only pieces of spring.
But winter is the master now, and it
imperiously summons me to acknowledge
its reign and not succumb to pale
mental images. Oh, this season is gracious!
It spreads its spell across white fields
punctuated by evergreen groves and frozen
ponds. And perhaps its dreams inhabit
things in hibernation, and grants them
a cold solace for the duration
of ice and snow. And the silence
will prevail until the first crack of spring.
It spreads its cold charm across white
diels