The whisps linger, suspended,
A slow dance that's yet to end,
Frosted tree tips way around the bend,
Right out of place, The way the winter whisps burn up in the cold.
A god Send, to help the isolated mend,
lost without gardens to tend,
I think the winter whisps have gotten old,
and the thought they developed out of smoke is something bold,
The winter whisps, may even still burn off in this winters cold.