Frost

Nature never sleeps.

On the coldest mornings

S/he is etching images

on my windows,

reminding me

that winter does

not mean that

the painters brush is still.

Even monotonous gray

sub zero chill

hooded skies cannot

dampen her ardor.

I gaze at birds and trees,

swaying seaweed,

 fairy tale Forests,

fantastic fans.

Images of

every conceivable shape

 sketched in white crystal.

 And when the sun

surfaces from the deep

I am astonished,

struck dumb by Her Brilliance.