The winter's talons scar across the land,
And fallow fields bleed white with crystal rime,
The bitter wind will crack the farmer's hand;
And night throws down the gauntlet goading time.
A filigree of patterns on the pane
That do not melt before a pallid sun
Has risen to the noon day sky again,
But they reform before the day is done.
Once singing brook now murmurs under ice,
The waterfall is trapped in crystal shine,
Both held within the winter's cruel vice,
As whistling winds are whining through the pines.
Beneath a hush of white each living thing
Will sleep until the coming of the spring.
Gold trophy winner
Silver trophy winner
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