In the quiet hush of snowy woods,
Where whispers of leaves once danced,
The poet walks a shadowed path,
In realms where dreams are chanced.

His pen now rests, the ink has dried,
Yet echoes linger in the frost,
With every step, a whispered verse,
Of paths both taken and lost.

Beneath the moon’s soft silver glow,
His spirit wanders, free and wide,
Through birch and fir, and icy streams,
Where memories and words abide.

Though silence fills the frosty air,
His legacy forever sings,
In every breeze that stirs the night,
A gentle voice that nature brings.