When the world is cold
and no longer are the bears bold,
a flurry of crystal galleons
flurry down, down, down
until they hit the ground.
Once there they sit proud
for a moment,
until they shudder without a sound
as they melt and become one with the ground.
Then begins the wetness,
when all is a stream, brook, or pool.
Soon to be caught and sealed in place,
by the wind and its cold, harsh mace.
Here come the blades of silvery metal
and laughter and joy and wonder
of the children and their blunder
or the grown-ups and their fabricated grace.
Until the moment there springs an emerald
in the snowcapped, frozen world.