@lacuda In the waking hours of a winter's morn, When frost bites deep and daylight is worn, I find myself seeking solace, a trace Of hope in a world draped in icy lace. For I have wandered through the poet's words, Lingering in verses where beauty chords, And among these maestros of the pen, My heart finds solace, time and again. Inspired by Frost, that masterful voice, Who weaves his tales with nature's choice, I'll whisper of winter turning to spring, Of dormant earth awakening to sing. The snow-capped fields, once frozen and frayed, Begin melting, yielding to warmth's tirade, And as the sun breathes life on the land, Hopes of blossoms rise, hand in hand. Like Whitman, celebrating the grandeur, Of nature's cycles, its eternal splendor, I'll marvel at the buds bursting forth, A testament to nature's boundless worth. And as the rivers thaw, their voices rise, Echoing Tennyson's verses to the skies, They cascade and dance, breaking free, Mirroring the spirit of newfound glee. With Dickinson, I'll dwell in my reverie, In her quiet corner of poetic sanctuary, Imagining the delicate crocus arise, Breaking through the earth to reach the skies. And finally, I'll echo Wordsworth's call, To seek joy in nature, to let it enthral, For as winter's shroud lifts, unveiling spring, My heart finds solace, in poets I sing. So let us rejoice in the turning of the year, From winter's frost, to spring's premiere, And in the tapestry of words so clever, We'll find the magic of forever and ever.