One cold winter Morning,
It fell without warning.
Icy snowflakes, delicate lace,
Fluttered on lashes, hair and face.
Descending flurries, heavy now,
Pile so high on every bough.
Feathered foliage frozen white.
Conifers cuddle close, so tight.
A last blushing rose, has turned so pale.
Her frosted head, she looks so frail.
The lawn, now a carpet looks so pure.
Not yet a footstep has it endured,
The birdhouse with its brand new thatch
That served all spring the newly hatched.
All the shrubs, now scarcely seen.
Except berries of orange red and green.
Glowing like lanterns they burn so bright,
To feed the birds, with no supper last night,
The garden is sleeping, a slumber so deep.
Concealed in a blanket, so silent… asleep.