In the quiet woods where echoes linger,
Frost walks with whispers of the past;
Each step a dance with nature’s finger,
Painting stories that forever last.

Beneath the boughs of birch and pine,
He finds the roads less traveled by,
Crafting verses in rhythm and rhyme,
Embracing solitude, reaching the sky.

The frost-kissed fields, the morning light,
A canvas wide, both vast and deep;
With gentle grace, he takes his flight,
In dreams where endless musings seep.

Through seasons’ change, his words endure,
A timeless voice in winter’s breath;
With every line, he makes us sure,
Of beauty found in life and death.