Winter Sestina

See if you hear the church bells chime
As downward floats a single flake –
The first of many to take the breath
Of rose-faced children itching to glide
Across the pond's stark shell of frost
And disappear into the mist.

But won't the autumn be sorely missed?
Perhaps. For now, the long tin chimes,
Which sway and echo amidst the frost,
Sing lullabies to lonely flakes
That dance, and stick, and melt, and glide
Down windowpanes in blasts of breath.

Meanwhile, across the pond's great breadth,
Sharp skates on ice create a mist
Of shards too small to see, which glide
Far, far away from bubbly chimes
Of laughter whilst the dry skin flakes
From cheeks so parched by subzero frost.

Alas, although they love the frost
That clings to hair and shies from breath,
Within the house, the pastries flake
And bake, releasing fragrant mist
As mother strikes the dinner chime
And summons them indoors to glide

Across the hardwood floor. They glide
In socks – like blades across the frost –
And sit up straight (lest mother chide)
And through their noses draw deep breaths
Of sweet, sweet sugar crumbs that missed
The plate as cookies baked and flaked.

But as it falls – the final flake –
The pure white snow all melts and glides
Down streets, or heats and flies as mist
To signify the death of frost.
The trees and flowers hold their breath
And lie in wait for spring's soft chime.

The children's happiness will flake,
Their glides on frost will be quite missed,
But hold your breath – hear! The bells still chime.