The air is crisp, the farm is silent. Snow on the fence, a frayed coat's eyelet. The ground now sits, resting from toil. Eager for seeds, asleep is the soil. The barn doors hinge, all tightened with rust. Will loosen once more, with coming spring's thrust. A time for pause, a season of trust. For warmth will return, flower buds to bust. It's winter on our farm, a time of long yarn. Of seasons' past, our pantry's charm. So we will yearn, for thy return. Hope for next season, a winter's rest earned.
Our Great Pyrenees stands silently against the winter's landscape. Always on guard.