Winter Woods
Winter woods aren't desolate As they would seem to be, For beauty dwells at every turn For searching eyes to see. The black of trees is ermine trimmed; Each bush is wearing lace And Nature's spread with lavish hand White velvet every place. Where winter sunrays lightly touch The ice-encrusted stream, Upon its crystal countenance A thousand diamonds gleam. No, winter woods aren't desolate-- There's beauty enough to spare; And those in search of loveliness Will surely find it there. Virginia Blanck Moore The Best of Ideals ©1978