Old Man Winter wakes the night
With frost upon his breath;
He shakes his cloak of crystal light
Across the silent earth.
His footprints whisper in the snow,
His beard is made of rime;
He bends the trees with gusts that blow
Like echoes out of time.
He chills the rivers into glass,
He crowns the hills with white;
Yet stars seem sharper as they pass
Through his unblinking night.
But when he turns his icy head
And wanders toward the sea,
The world stirs up from winter’s bed—
Released from his decree.