A Canvas Stark

The bough is bare, a skeletal grey, The wind, a scythe, cuts sharp and deep, No warbling birds, they've flown away, Where frozen fields in slumber sleep.

A hush descends, a pallid grace, The sun, a ghost, through clouds of white, On frozen pond, a mirrored space, Reflects the dim, phantasmal light.

The world is still, a canvas stark, With diamond frost on window pane, A lonely soul, a dying spark, Recalls the spring, a sweet refrain.

The day grows dim, the shadows creep, A chilling breath begins to blow, And weary souls their vigil keep, While snowflakes dance, a silent show.