SEASON POEM

I can hear the bubbling of my favourite creek under the ice as I hop from stone to stone over itI grab a branch of an old cherry tree that is dull and dead in the thick piles of rich white snowI slip on a piece of clear ice that looksI see the icicles hanging from one of the many logs fallen along this pathThe icicles are diamonds, reflecting beams of the winter sun through the rest of the trailIf I look up to the sky, I see the blue skyThat has a powder white hue during this time of yearThe temperatures drop so low and send a chill down my spineBut that does not stop me from eyeing the winter wonderlandThat comes when the leaves finish falling and when the winds turn to snowstormsThis my home in the winter