Well Versed In The Weather

Winter is two hours old.
Oh, not that the weather
Of winter has not been upon us.
But the march of the sun
To its most southerly position
Ended today.
The cold wind blows the white powder
Covering the fields
Piling drifts waist high, at least.
From below the floorboards
In defiance of the howling wind
Rings the song of the last cricket of summer.
A mighty peculiar sound
When I gaze at the Christmas tree
All decorated in holiday trimmings.
His song revives the memories
Of a summer past.
His song
Excites to thoughts
Of future summers.
Christ's Mass
Yule
A cricket's lonely song
All cry of rebirth
In a world yet
To come.