Silver footsteps in the snow,
padded prints so small and free.
Ethreal in every feel
on the path of winter's grace.
Boughs are hung low with ice,
drifted are the snowbank's crowns.
Kings of winter's freezing pagaents,
all-knowing of the season's dreams.
Embrace of frost lay sweet and strange
among the many dying trees,
catching sun and playing games
with cold determination.
