“Snowflakes swirl down gently in the deep blue haze beyond the window. The outside world is a dream.”
I have always loved winter. The real winter, when cold November rains and howling winds change into hard frosts every morning. Your face and hands go numb in the ice cold drafts. Everything falls silent apart from the familiar crunching sound under your feet when you walk on freshly fallen snow. These are my memories from my childhood in Czechoslovakia. With move to England I lost those magical moments in snowy white wonderland. The weather here is so much milder. December is almost like continuation of dreary November days. However gradually I learnt how to love the different sides of winter and how to find beauty in every one of them. And when I happen to experience brief spells of frost and mist, or even snow, I appreciate them even more than ever before.
Silence can always be broken by the sound
Of footsteps walking over frozen ground
In winter when the melancholy trees
Stand abject and let their branches freeze
will never melt
will never freeze
and some things will only
… live in poems.
The countryside lies silently
Beneath a pristine quilt of snow,
In darkness waiting patiently
For dawn to cast its rosy glow.
The sun illuminates the earth,
As slowly-waking creatures see
The vision of a day’s rebirth:
A wonderland, a fantasy.
Mary T. Hoffman
All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.
William Carlos Williams
“December’s wintery breath is already clouding the pond, frosting the pane, obscuring summer’s memory…”
“The colour of springtime is in the flowers, the colour of winter is in the imagination.”
“Hello winter! My heart is warm and ready to enjoy your cool loving touch of beauty and splendor.”
“Thank goodness for the first snow, it was a reminder – no matter how old you became and how much you’d seen, things could still be new if you were willing to believe they still mattered.”
It is deep January. The sky is hard.
The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
It is in this solitude, a syllable,
Out of these gawky flitterings,
Intones its single emptiness,
The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
“One can follow the sun, of course, but I have always thought that it is best to know some winter, too, so that the summer, when it arrives, is the more gratefully received.”
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
but he’s restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
So, it’s over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he’s done all he can.
I don’t know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—
which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”
“Are you the ghosts of fallen leaves, O flakes of snow, For which, through naked trees, the winds a-mourning go?”
John B. Tabb
Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
Aren’t you cold and won’t you freeze,
With branches bare, you winter trees?
You’ve thrown away your summer shift,
Your autumn gold has come adrift.
Dearie me, you winter trees,
What strange behaviour, if you please!
In summer you could wear much less,
But come the winter – you undress!
I am Winter, that do keep
Longing safe amidst of sleep:
Who shall say if I were dead
What should be remembered?
It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.
It makes an even face
Of mountain and of plain, —
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.
It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil
On stump and stack and stem, —
The summer’s empty room,
Acres of seams where harvests were,
Recordless, but for them.
It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, —
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.
I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”
“Winter teetered on the verge of succumbing to the returning sun, but today the breeze still preferred the touch of snowflakes”
“I love the scent of winter. I love the scent of winter enough to suffer the cold for it.”
Winter solitude –
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.
Because the birdsong might be pretty,
But it’s not for you they sing,
And if you think my winter is too cold,
You don’t deserve my spring.