By Sawyer Quint

The ice trickles down

On a soft touching ground as

The wind howls a song

And a stream rushes on

Where the cold draws brushstrokes across the sky

The trees sway a bit

And their branches softly hit

When the pale air flows

Just to surely die

The cold can be sharp while

Nature looks soft as a harp

Playing sweet slow songs on christmas morn

I watch with my warmth

And feel the perspiration on the cup in my hands

And adore what it’s like

Beyond the