Winter’s icy fingers freeze
the earth, yet grace the trees,
with frost like finest lace,
pure white.
Spun by ghostly weavers
in the night.
How magical, this winter scene,
swathed in moonlight’s silver
spangled sheen.
Snow-laden days that she
may bring.
A prelude to a glorious
Spring.
by Ann Potkins
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on Wednesday, February 8th, 2006 at 1:26 am and is filed under Seasonal Poetry.
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