Dale Lloyd

Today my world is winter white.
The noonday sun is shining bright.
The wind is on a holy tear,
sweeping snow into the air.
Where it is going—I need not know;
Someone, I’m sure, the way must show.

It seems to pause along its flight,
then threatens to snatch my hat outright.
It can’t fool me—I hear it laugh,
it huffs and puffs, yet bears no wrath.
It doesn’t even know my name,
yet still invites me to the game.

Such wonder—how can I comprehend?
I only know that winter’s always been
a faithful, quieter kind of friend.

The rhythm of life is slower now
as knee-deep through the snow I plow.
A cardinal draws a line of red
across the crisp, cold air—then fled
into the forest, leaving me
alone to stare, attentively.

The black-capped chickadees, less shy,
come close, as if reluctant to pass me by.
I hear the stream that will not still,
gurgling on with gentle will,
politely resisting winter’s claim,
the long cold season’s silent reign.

Its spray is frozen in midair—
magical artwork everywhere.
It can’t be bought with silver bright,
it can’t be bought with gold’s delight.
And should this magic fade from me,
I’ll know the fault is not in what I see,
not the snow, nor stream, nor winter’s art—
but age that crept into my heart.

Standing here, I breathe a prayer:
O Father—may it never be,
for if I die to beauty true,
I will have died, in part, to You.