If winter lived to tell its tale,
Pray what would come to light?
The silent lull of twilight pale
Slipping into the night?
A lonely cricket chirping tall
Would coax the leaves of grey
As they desert a dying fall
And court the winter’s day.
A dry wind blowing specks of dust,
Biting through skin and bones,
Would pour the glints of iron rust
Down chimneys of warm homes.
Would flimsy dew on blades of silk
Steal monsoon’s roar and thunder?
Each patch stitched on a granny’s quilt
Would spin the yarns of wonder.
Of burning fire, crackled frost,
Of tales both shy and bold,
A winter lies buried and lost
In skies of mist and cold.