Each flake descends through crisp and quiet air,
While on the couch I rest with cocoa near,
Its warmth a balm, a solace for the year,
The trees, with snow, no longer stripped and bare.
Alone I lie, the heavy snow so rare,

A morning nigh, the quiet calm so sheer,
I watch from near the fire’s amber cheer,
Soft flecks of white that dance with gentle flair.
I dream of thee, the Brit with Yankee’s name:
A playful snow fight filled with laughter’s din,

Thy gentle ways, thy heart, thy sniper aim—
But every game, thou always let me win.
Now distant, thou, with blue eyes soft, the same,
A face I know, though far from me within.