Winter

An Etheree: A poem about Winter

Winter


A bony finger scratches the window
pane as it sways to the rhythmic
whispers of a hushed lullaby,
Sleep sleep tis' the season
of rest, Father Winter
croons ever so softly
while sending his
pearly white
down to
lite
with
gentle
persistence
upon her bare
limbs cloaking her in
a soft blanket of snow
a cocoon of his making
he protects her as she slumbers
with the warmth of his song and robe
from the tempest he knows he could become.