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.