Bright waters that once burbled in the brook
no longer sing, their voice entombed in ice,
the treble of their song a sacrifice
to frozen gods who heard their notes and took
their beauty like a cold and craven crook.
This winter has exacted such a price
with chilling winds that search for warmth and slice
the heart from out each creature they forsook.

But I'll soon hear the trilling of the birds,
the fluttering of each returning wing,
as by the warming of the air they're spurred
to come back home and with them bring the spring.
Then when I'm filled with joy at what I've heard,
I'll know that winter's cold has lost its sting.