A Poem

A poem it is...
I'd like to write.
One that's born,
Within the night.

Through parted drapes,
With everything still.
And a bright moon rising,
Up over the hill.

When winter scenes,
With frost enchants.
And whifts of breezes,
Whirls and pants.

And dancing flakes,
Go round and round.
Tracing patterns,
On the ground.

Soft, sculptured drifts,
All current fanned.
Glittered by diamonds,
In a wonderland.

E.P. 1908 - 1989