Friday, February 1, 2013


Blow then, oh frigid gale of howling song
Sweep over argent landscapes petrified
Across blue tree-limbs splayed upon the lawn
Cajole the winter-stricken countryside
Unleash your silver gusto; evergreen
Bows low beneath the tempo of your tune
And over all the earth a gilded sheen
Rivals the opulence of emerald June
Blow then, for every season has its day
A splash, a dash and then it drifts away

The deluge of your gripping overture
Though startling in it raw, ruthless release
Depletes its stores of winter-white verdure
The world is tranquil in snow-muffled peace
The kiss of Father Time is not reserved
For flesh and blood; seasons succumb beneath
His touch; the remnant of its mien preserved
In memories of alabaster sheath
Thus we do not despise your vulgar thrust
For soon your venom dies; dust unto dust

Tonight your song lunges against the sill
It moans outside the door, a lonesome wail
Oh, I would let you in but for your chill
So you remain, a wild and wandering gale
With renewed passion you employ your wrath
And we are at the mercy of its lay
Beneath your shroud the brook and garden-path
Wait patiently for Spring’s imminent day
Then fling your melody into the air
You are the harbinger of breezes fair

© Janet Martin 

Tonight the song rises and falls, from flurry to calm.

Song for a Winter's Night -Gordon Lightfoot 

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