In the heart of winter’s chill embrace,
Where whispers of the woods find their grace,
Beneath the snow’s soft, silent veil,
Stories of the past begin to trail.

Frosted branches, like old hands, reach,
In quiet lands where shadows teach,
The language of the cold, crisp air,
A song of solitude and rare.

Along the paths of silver and white,
Footsteps echo in the hushed night,
The moon casts a gentle, guiding glow,
On fields where dreams and reality flow.

In the realm of Robert Frost’s winter scene,
Nature’s poetry remains serene,
A tapestry of stillness, deep and true,
Painting words and worlds anew.