Under the eaves, the dried radish hangs,
Crisp and cold, in winter’s fangs.
On the ground, the frozen dung,
Clinks like ice, where it's hung.
Winter’s chill, so sharp, so clear,
Every sound, a frozen tear.
The world is cold, the ground is tight,
As winter dances through the night.
The radish cracks in brittle air,
A quiet chill everywhere.
Even the dung, so small and round,
Hangs like glass upon the ground.
The air is sharp, the frost is near,
As winter's breath draws ever clear.
Winter’s chill, so sharp, so clear,
Every sound, a frozen tear.
The world is cold, the ground is tight,
As winter dances through the night.
The ground beneath is hard as stone,
Every step, a chilling tone.
Even the smallest, simplest thing,
In winter’s cold, begins to sting.
But still, beneath the frozen sky,
Life endures, though times are dry.
The world may freeze, the winds may blow,
But spring will come, this much we know.
For winter’s bite, though sharp and long,
Cannot silence nature’s song.
So under eaves, and on the ground,
Winter’s silence is profound.
But soon the ice will melt away,
And warmer winds will have their say.
Winter’s chill, so sharp, so clear,
Every sound, a frozen tear.
The world is cold, the ground is tight,
As winter dances through the night.