(from "Victorian Homes," December 2006)
Not a sound can be heard,
Not a whisper of the wind,
Not a call of a bird.
A cold stormy night
Let a blanket of snow
And a silence as pure
As a carved cameo.
The snowy ground glistens,
The air smells of pine.
Trees webbed with hoarfrost
Leave a dreamy design.
Nothing compares,
To the beauty of snow,
To the sparkle of frost,
To the clouds hanging low…
Except for the quiet,
The stillness profound,
That floats on the air
And covers the ground.
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