The Little House

I once had the pleasure of staying for a time at a friend’s cottage in the Catskill Mountains. They called it “The Little House.”

It had a large picture window on the backside overlooking a flowing mountain stream. The tops of rounded rocks poked above the flow and were covered with snow. Little crystals of ice clustered around the edges of the rocks. It struck my poetic muse and the result was this poem entitled, “Little House in Winter.”

The winter sun above the cold
Reflects upon a passing stream
And warms my heart as if foretold
Its presence sits upon a dream.

Smooth pates of stone with tufts of snow
Along and in the liquid ice,
Await the spring and rising flow
To warm their heads with water’s slice.

Cold stands of trees, along the edge,
Add texture to the frigid art
As winter light plays off a ledge
And holds the shadows far apart.

But then I turn around and claim
The warmth within a cozy room
And leave the window’s glass to frame

The Little House’s winter bloom.