The brown and gold lie before me
across the wintered land,
From the low shadows of the mighty oaks
up to their crown as they stand grand.
The paths of leaves here lie in bronze
with occasional dashes of black,
Where God's creatures had this way passed
and left as evidence their track.
The trails winding through the winter wood,
like poured ribbons of molasses,
Lead to the shimmering golden fields
of dancing wind-blown grasses.
The gold and copper tips of fur
bristle against a sky of azure blue,
As a fox squirrel rides a limb on high
with a tan hickory nut to chew.
In the mix of muted greens,
of maroon and bronze and brown,
There is a richness of warmth, of charm,
that only in winter is found.
Beauty, as it is so often said,
is in the eyes of the beholder.
Was there ever a picture painted so grand
as this woods now one more season older?
Ah Summer, I'll not deny you're beauty
that comes after the woods have rested,
But, when it comes to painting in limited hues,
Winters pallet can not be bested.
K.L. Dennie
January 2020
