December Morning

        Ice frosted windows
        
      frame images of snow
      
     blown scapes of fields
     
      scattered with drifts
      
        of unmeasured heights
        
reaching, with the help of showering snow,

          to the clouds which threaten
          
                 to muffle this day
                 
            in blankets and piles.
            
           But I awaken
           
      to the warmth of sons
      
      breaking open my sleep
      
with laughter and whispered, hidden plans,

          the sound of sleighbells.

         - James Mitchell