Beneath a blanket of snow an ice
sleeps a meadow of daffodils
awaiting the call of a golden trumpet
that signals when to rise and kiss the sun.
Snow covered bird houses stand like silent sentinels
undeterred by the winds and the chills of time.
They dream of blue birds and swallows
that always return like silver haired travelers
who chase the warmth of the sun.
My heart waits like a box on a dresser
that holds memories of a time when
unicorns were possible and a meadow
of daffodils blossomed even in the snow.