A PORTRIATE OF WINTER 1801

In yonder frost, where icicles cling with icy grace,
And Dick, the shepherd, clasps warmth within his hands,
While Tom, with logs, strides through the echoing hall,
And milk returns, frozen, in a chilled embrace.

When Blood feels the biting chill, and ways grow foul,
Then cries the owl, with haunting howls, a mournful tune,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu-who: a note austere, a solemn chord,
As Joan, with pot, cherishes her task with devotion.

When winds resound in boisterous glee, dancing with joy,
And coughs, in chorus, outmatch the parson’s tale,
As birds, in snow, sit pensively, contemplating time,
And Marian’s nose, in red, bewails the cold embrace.

When crabs hiss fiercely within the bowl’s embrace,
Again, the owl’s mysterious soul unfolds,
Tu-who;

Tu-whit, tu-who: a somber score, a melancholic melody,
While Joan, with pot, tends to her lore, a keeper of the flame.