In midst of winter,
Darkness cold,
And stillness 'round,
Light warmth surmise,
Stirs 'neath the ground,
And pushes slowly,
Toward the skies.
It is as if,
The woods do'th know,
That there beneath,
The bitter snow,
The wondrous wakening,
Of glorious spring,
Does slowly grow.
And so the,
Northern climes,
Do shed unending dark,
To hear the jaunty rhymes,
Of rustles 'neath the bark,
And return of greener times,
Amid'st this gentle spark.
Rejoice with me,
The winters wane,
The promise yet to be,
Of green upon the plain,
And glorious color to see,
And snow replaced by gentle rain,
And warmth be there for thee.
And warmth be there for thee.
©2017 Carl Erickson