Gentle Winter

The winter washes white
Across the mountains, and
Its breath upon the land
Blows frost into he night.
It whispers to the rain
To slow its forceful fall,
And, at the pleaful call,
Drift down upon the plain.
It sings a sweet duet
Upon the crispen breeze
With all the swaying trees
Of how they first had met.
It curls into the hair
Of people passing by,
With just a gentle sigh
To say that it was there.

– s. Clark