Falling, the snow drifts through the air,
Catches on the trees, settles on the dry floor,
Covering, with a fresh layer, the dying world.
The wilted foliage and stripped branches
All resting under a blanket.
Come the pure wool,
The youth speed for the fleecy hills,
Singing the song of a sparrow,
Creating wondrous castles and angels,
Leaping into the cloud.
Come the silent shroud,
The animals, once gracing the soil,
Now nipped by the biting frost,
Dart into trenches, hide till the chill departs, dodge the coming freeze,
Waiting for the warmth to arrive,
Like the night waiting for the day,
When the sheet weakens,
When the seeds wake from their dormancy,
When it is time for them to emerge once again,
Until the next layer falls--