In the hush of winter's white embrace,
A bench cradles souls in snow's soft lace.
Coats of wool and fur defy the chill,
Pages turn like whispers on the hill.
First, a gray-beared elder, book in glove,
Eyes trace lines of ancient, sacred love.
Snowflakes dance upon his quiet brow,
Holy words unfold, as time allows.
Beside him, beard of salt and wisdom deep,
"Holy Scripture" guards the secrets he keeps.
Sunlight filters through the frosted veil,
A psalm of peace in every exhaled gale.
Then a younger kin, in brown cloak warm,
Blue tome open to a tale's quiet storm.
Pines stand sentinel, evergreen and tall,
As verses bloom where snowflakes gently fall.
Last, a man in shearling, sharp and neat,
Red-edged pages pulse with heartbeat sweet.
Bare trees arch like prayers in the sky,
Ink and frost entwine, no need to cry.
Four solitaries, yet bound as one,
In winter's library, beneath the sun.
Books their hearth, the snow their silent choir,
Souls ignited by an inner fire.
For in the cold, the mind finds endless spring,
Where words weave warmth, and spirits sing.
No storm can dim the light they hold within—
Eternal summer starts where pages begin.
A bench cradles souls in snow's soft lace.
Coats of wool and fur defy the chill,
Pages turn like whispers on the hill.
First, a gray-beared elder, book in glove,
Eyes trace lines of ancient, sacred love.
Snowflakes dance upon his quiet brow,
Holy words unfold, as time allows.
Beside him, beard of salt and wisdom deep,
"Holy Scripture" guards the secrets he keeps.
Sunlight filters through the frosted veil,
A psalm of peace in every exhaled gale.
Then a younger kin, in brown cloak warm,
Blue tome open to a tale's quiet storm.
Pines stand sentinel, evergreen and tall,
As verses bloom where snowflakes gently fall.
Last, a man in shearling, sharp and neat,
Red-edged pages pulse with heartbeat sweet.
Bare trees arch like prayers in the sky,
Ink and frost entwine, no need to cry.
Four solitaries, yet bound as one,
In winter's library, beneath the sun.
Books their hearth, the snow their silent choir,
Souls ignited by an inner fire.
For in the cold, the mind finds endless spring,
Where words weave warmth, and spirits sing.
No storm can dim the light they hold within—
Eternal summer starts where pages begin.
The Sunday Circle