I, January's Child

While the temperature plummets,
And icicles cling tightly,
Whether atop the summits,
Or below, it frosts nightly,
And the chilling winds surround,
As snowflakes, fall to the ground.

Exhaled breath lingers in air,
All's silent but my footsteps,
And there is white, everywhere.
Winter hopes; that seen, its depths,
By way of a promenade,
In the still, brisk, wooded quad.

When cozy-calm, wrapped, at home,
Lying by a heated source,
If returns the want to roam,
I think, of the traversed course,
And remember the silence,
And the sublime transcendence.

A willing patron, was I,
Despite the numbing coldness,
For on its truth, I rely.
And so, I: am a witness,
To Nature, provoking thought,
And; self-reflect, on sights sought.