by Lucille Crumley
I can remember when I was a child
The winters were stormy, the winters were wild.
Snow fell early and soft on the ground;
The glistening of ice-coated trees all around;
Crisp crunching of snow crusts under my feet;
The beat on my window of cold driving sleet.
The thump of an axe by the shrinking woodpile...
The shoveling of snow off the walk to the stile;
Singing skate blades flashing by on the lake...
The lowing of cattle in the windbreak;
Church bells calling at twilight's last glow
From over the hills all blue-white with snow
The soft hiss of sled runners cutting deep traces;
Shrill shouts of children on sledding's best places;
The wind song's moan in the tall pine trees...
dripping of water as icicles freeze.
A blue jay's harsh call when he's hungry at dawn...
It seems since I'm older these sounds have all gone.
Now I sit by the fire as it crackles and snaps
And close my eyes tightly, just thinking perhaps.
I can hear all the sounds and all the sights see
Of the winters that came to the once little me.