The Winter's Voice

Beneath the sky, its frosted veil,
The snow lies soft, a silken sheet.
Each step becomes a muffled hail,
A whispered rhythm, firm yet fleet.

The crack of ice, a sharp retort,
Splinters the stillness, brittle, cold.
Each sound a memory, time cut short,
By frozen ground, both young and old.

The wind hums low through ashen trees,
A hollow note, both deep and spare.
It bears the weight of centuries,
And whispers secrets through the air.

A brook half-choked beneath the frost
Still weaves a thread of liquid song.
Its voice a shadow, tempest-tossed,
A tune where summer lingers long.

The woods at dusk hold shadows still,
Yet every sound rings sharp, profound.
As if the snow and distant hill
Preserve the echoes winter found.

Beneath the moon's uncertain glow,
I trace these voices, faint yet clear.
Each tone a story etched in snow,
A fleeting hymn for hearts to hear.