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The crystal shiver of an icicle
That falls from a bank where the runnels are deep,
The last thaw cut in the red brown bank
Where the melting frost rills creep.


The pine tree branches are bending low
With a white, wet weight, and a woodpecker drums
On a locust tree that will blossom white
When the call for honey comes.


The elm tree is grey with a purple shade,
And the sky seems to hang too low,
But I've seen a light that the willows made,
Yellow against the snow.


The edge of the wind is chill and wet,
Thin ice over the stream looks black,
And I know that power to power is set
And winter is turning back.