Winter's Song

The Voices Of The Wild.

© 2003, Foxy!


The leaves blow cold and the seasons they change,
From the low tranquil valley, to the high mountain range.
Now possessions placed aside the door veiled in a sheet of rime;
And faunal tracks adorn the frost as if in some grand design.

The longing of summers' past in the whispering trees,
And the still waters murmur 'neath this withering freeze.
The innocence of pure newborn spring; now gone.
Locked away this season, enshrouded by winter's song.

But gaze here a lingering moment, through the eyes of a child;
For here in this instant are the voices of the wild.

Now squirrels dig with frigid paws for what acorns may be found,
And no longer doth the call of birdsong in the skies abound.
The cry of the lone wolf now echoes this frozen land,
and snow drifts idly as if dusted by some hidden, divine hand.

What adventurers hurry past this way do so with breath aview;
Ajourney home to inns methinks for warming wines and stew.
Even the sounds of battle now, seem muted, dimmed, subdued;
Mayhap the virgin, pristine snow will not this day be red hued.

Yet regard this silent second as with the eyes of a child;
For here in this instant are the voices of the wild.
And as I turned to walk to warmer climes, deep inside I smiled,
For I could hear all natures' calling in the voices of the wild.