Winter’s Grove

Gloomy pines whisper with unrest, in a fitful winter breeze,

Swaying to a hidden rhythm, the dance of an early freeze,

 

Shivering in the frost, that is coating frigid boughs,

A crown of snow, fresh and pure, resting on their brows,

 

Beneath the dubious shelter of this silent grove,

My mind in meditation, will slightly rove,

 

Escaping the chill of the season’s grip,

On the ice floes of thought, I will slip,

 

And fall…

And fall…

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