The trees snap sharply in the chill;
Curved snow hugs closely to the hill;
The lifeless brook stares blank and still,
And summer days are distant things.
But, dreaming, tight-wrapped buds recall
The fairer time; and, safe from fall,
The moth hangs in her silken shawl
and sleeps, aware we sometimes crawl
Through cold aloneness for our wings.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, October 3, 1950
