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WRITTEN IN MARCH

by William Wordsworth

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The plowboy is whooping—anon-anon:
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!

Snowflake Souffle

In silence they come tumbling down,                                    

tossing twirling to the ground.

Hours pass...the piles grow higher.

Snowflake Souffle is what you desire!?!

In wonderment I sit and stare

at Mother Nature's creative flare.

In the far off clouds I see

a glistening white menagerie.

There's an arctic fox and albino deer, 

a great white bear...but have no fear.

For they'll prance about in the billowy clouds,

'til the northern winds shoo the trio out.

To the earth they'll make their way,

this icy creation...more Snowflake Souffle.

Snowflakes and souffle — so fluffy and light.

But like people I know, similarities are slight.

As the snowflakes slowly drift on by, 

I contemplate the years and sigh.

For, without a doubt, they come and go,

but what they may bring...one only knows.

© 2011 K.S.D.