Winter's Child

She cloaks herself with silvered gown
in pomegranate time,
as whistling winds whirl through the coombs,
austerity sublime.
Mother's nature is to spurn
her leafy charges all,
until the sunrise warms our souls
in a glorious golden ball.
Thus when her frozen tears have gone
the way of morning dew,
she'll call her petall'd pretties out
and drape herself anew.

-Tom Grills