The ground still covered in fresh white snow,
Makes crazy sound, the birds who sing.
They surely know that it’s not Spring,
Yet here they are to do their thing.
Chirping loudly outside my pane,
They call to mind a gentle rain,
A sun filled sky, a starry night,
The gentle dance of the firefly.
But crunching underneath my feet,
The white and frozen powder’s seen.
It’s beautiful, though it makes me cold,
yet knowing these things mean that winter is old.