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