Old man Winter sat upon his stoop
Puffing frosty breath into the air,
Cracked his brittle knuckles as he gazed,
Brushed his icy slippers on the stair.
Looking back, he called into the house,
“Child, it is time to rise from bed.
My stay here is passed, and yours is nigh,
Wake, and shake the cold out from your head.
Earth awaits the sunshine of your smile,
For its warmth to melt the crystal snow,
And it craves the sweet scent of your breath
To expel the frigid winds that blow.
Come, dear, there are frozen trees and fields
Waiting for your touch to make them bloom.
You will bring no beauty to the world
Painting light into your silent room.”
As he sat with flowing beard and robes
Rolling full and white onto the floor,
Came a tiny head of floret hair
Bobbing up to hide against the door.
He raised up his hand and waved her on,
So with timid grin and swishing skirt,
Spring danced out to join him on the stoop,
Dainty feet and fingers dyed with dirt.
Laughing, she reached out her tiny arms
Greeting earth, and as her gladness spread,
So the warmth she held. Until at last,
Winter rose, and softly went to bed.
– s. Clark