Dale Lloyd

I hear the song of winter
when the moon hangs cold and bright.
Fresh-fallen snow reflects its glow,
illumining the night.

The memory is old, and yet
as fresh as when first made—
a teenage lad with a romantic soul,
imagining games yet to be played.

The moonscape stretched before me
as I stood upon the hill;
every sight and every sound
awakening another thrill.

Knee-deep in snow at seventeen,
I felt I understood
what the Creator must have felt
when He declared, “This is good.”

A winter world of shadow—
cold, yet somehow warm—
fills me with such wonder now;
I feel myself reborn.

With grace they dance in winter wind,
attentive to the song it sings.
The drifting snow goes swirling high—
it seems to almost touch the sky.

Then suddenly—
all is still.
A holy hush upon my hill.

I stand within this frozen air,
so crisp, so sharp, so clean,
and silently my spirit asks:
Who is the Master Painter
of such a sacred scene?