The earth lies silently
'Neath its blanket asleep.
The wind cuts raw and cold
Into the marrow deep.
Over open meadow;
Over woodland place;
Under its white blanket,
Quiet sleep upon its face.
Days begin to linger;
Sun's rays slanting steep,
Calling to the earth
Under its blanket fast asleep.
Promise of resurrection
In its bosom keeps,
As it lays beneath its blanket,
Dormant, dead, asleep.
(Copyright © February 2, AD 2001. All rights reserved.)
(I was looking through an old journal of sorts and found this poem I had written, but had never published. I thought it appropriate for this time of year.)
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