Winter Poem

The trees do not so much as whisper today—
Their arms are quiet under sleeves of snow;
As though waiting for the seamstress to finish pinning,
They stand patiently, enjoying the luxury of new clothes.

The ground, too, is dazzled at its new array,
Too proud and smug to offer complaint—
‘See how beautiful I am!’ it shines contentedly,
Admiring itself in the light of the mild winter sun.

--Copyright © 2005 by M. Andronache