Seven short Winter Poems by Joan Adams
When it's winter in the Valley
and my breath hangs in the air,
The snow will crunch beneath my feet
and glisten in the air.
The stars at night light up my world
so I never walk alone;
It's clear and crisp and beautiful
in the Valley I call home.
I like the quiet on a winter's day;
it has so much to say.
It brings with it new ideas that
ordinarily wouldn't come my way.
Stillness - broken only by the whistle of a
far-off train or the ticking of the clock;
Stillness is when my mind and I never
feel the need to talk.
Eyes see more; thoughts are new;
wonder plays a part;
For in the stillness I hear those things
that are deep within my heart.
Branches were dipped in frosting this morn
and the sun cast a fairyland spell;
Each fragile twig looked feathered and white
and beckoned a heart to swell.
A winter treasure - a sight to behold -
while silence augmented the scene;
I wanted to walk through an open gate
to find the artist, supreme.
No gate could I see, the artist unseen,
awe captured my soul;
The canvas would change, as nature intended,
but I'd witnessed her morning's goal.
Intricate forms of filigree
capture eye and mind
As I look at the frost on the window
and see nature's splendid design.
Dramatic, dainty, elegant, surreal -
an enchanting window-dress -
And windows in a tiny home
have donned winter's best.
Friendly, heart-warming rays from above
show the magic of trees laden with virgin love;
prisms dance everywhere the eye can see,
mirroring what was, what is and what will forever be.
Snowflakes, feathers, flying geese on frosted window panes;
Trees and skis on misty slopes, and, yes, some candy canes;
See white-filmed stars and crescent moons painted on the glass.
Jack frost, of winter, gives his best with surrealistic class.
A Winter Memory
Fresh-fallen snow, untouched by man, tops bushes fence and tree;
The strong, gusty wind, whirling it 'round, improves and enriches
It sauntered down in the silence of night, leaving a scenic delight;
Now, in the sun, it dances and winks as we drink in the woundrous
This is a picture-post-card scene - winter at its best;
It leaves a mark etched in our heart of when winter was our guest.