Sunshine Mourning

Take in the sound as a whet; the crunching of snow under the night where frost waits for the air's embrace. There peers the solitude breath of nothing less than insignificance and fear that winter's end draws never near. Morning pierces, glinting lazy; Clumsy fingers of ardor. Silver turns gold when the moon relents and dawn pours forth. Glass on the pond in the back shimmers, and glints, and settles. That gleam insists the cold was just a dream.