In the hush of winter's cradle, where the snowflakes softly fall,
Like whispered secrets from the heavens, blanketing one and all,
Gather souls in woolen armor, scarves entwined like lovers' vows,
Upon benches forged of oak and ice, or circled 'round in wonder's brows.
See them there, the first trio on a seat dusted white and pure,
A man with beard of midnight shadow, eyes alight with ancient lore,
Beside him, woman with hair in bun, her smile a dawn in frozen night,
And another, hooded warmly, gazing down with pure delight.
Books unfurl like petals blooming in the chill, their pages gold and red,
Words that dance on lips unspoken, stories from the ages read.
The snow upon the bench's edge, a throne for minds in quiet quest,
They lean as one, in shared communion, hearts and intellects confessed.
Now behold the circle vast, seven figures in the drift,
Standing 'round a tome gigantic, as if the earth itself had lift
A bible vast, its leather cracked, illuminated by a beam
From sun low-hanging, golden threading through the flakes in silvery stream.
Coats of crimson, black, and beige, hoods with fur like halos bright,
They huddle close, breath mingling white, in unity against the bite
Of winter's breath, their faces glowing—joy in every furrowed line,
As verses leap from sacred script, binding souls in grand design.
Five more sit in forest's embrace, beneath the branches heavy-laden,
Books in laps, red covers gleaming, like rubies in the snow maiden.
One with bun and sweater tan, another scarf of orange fire,
A man in green with knowing grin, and two in red, their eyes aspire
To pages turned by gloved intent, the words a bridge 'cross icy void,
Laughter soft, like muffled bells, in this white world overjoyed.
A longer bench holds eight in row, aligned like notes upon a staff,
From child in white with rosy cheeks to elder wise, beyond the laugh
Of youth; their books aglow with inner light, defying gloom of gray,
Coats in spectrum—red, black, brown—scarves that flutter, yet obey
The pull of tale that draws them near, shoulders touching, spirits blend,
In snow that sparkles underfoot, where solitude and friendship mend.
Six encircle in the woods, a man with book of emerald hue,
Beard and scarf in purple weave, his voice perhaps the guiding clue;
Women point with mittened hands, their pom-pom hats a crown of cheer,
Laughter bubbles, snowflakes swirl, in this enclave without fear.
The central tome, ornate and old, its gold embossing catches gleam,
As fingers trace the scripted paths, awakening a collective dream.
Another six upon the ground, knees sunk deep in powder white,
A book of crimson, large and bold, held aloft in shared insight;
Hats with bobbles, coats of earth and sky, their faces turned as one,
To words that warm the frozen air, brighter than the hidden sun.
The pines stand sentinel around, their needles laced with frost's embrace,
Yet in this ring of human warmth, the cold recedes without a trace.
Four upon a bench so small, yet hearts expansive as the plain,
Yellow hood, red coat and skirt, teal with orange, blue with chain
Of scarf; their books a quartet choir, pages flipping in the breeze,
Smiles that melt the falling flakes, putting winter's wrath at ease.
Five recline on fallen log, a rustic throne 'midst forest deep,
Tablets glow and books unfold, where ancient meets the modern leap;
Yellow jacket bold and bright, plaid scarf in red and black so grand,
They read aloud, perhaps, or silent, in this band of snow-kissed land.
And last, six more on bench anew, a single book to bind their fate,
Red coat central, sharing light, with pages white as winter's slate;
Men in navy, black, and brown, women veiled in woolen grace,
Their eyes reflect the printed word, a mirror to the human race.
Oh, what thread weaves through these scenes, these tableaux etched in frost and fire?
'Tis the eternal hunger for the word, the story's sacred pyre.
In snow that muffles worldly din, where footsteps fade and echoes die,
Groups converge, not lone but linked, beneath the vast and starless sky.
Books become the hearth unbound, their flames invisible yet true,
Warming palms and souls alike, in hues of red and gold and blue.
Consider how the cold conspires to isolate, to chill the bone,
Yet here, in clusters small and grand, the human spirit claims its throne.
From three upon the urban bench, to eight in line like soldiers true,
To circles in the wildwood's heart, where knowledge blooms anew.
The books—some small, some vast as altars—hold the wisdom of the ages,
Poetry, prose, or holy writ, turning blank and wintry pages
Into portals, windows wide, to worlds where summer's rivers run,
Where lovers part and heroes fall, where battles lost are dearly won.
In every image, joy prevails, a defiance soft and sweet,
Against the bite of northern wind, the snow beneath their seat.
Scarves and hats, like banners bright, proclaim the victory of mind
Over the elements' cruel reign, leaving loneliness behind.
They read not just for self alone, but for the echo in another's gaze,
The nod, the smile, the shared "aha!" that sets the heart ablaze.
Imagine verses flowing forth—perhaps of frost-kissed lovers' plight,
Or psalms that promise spring's return after the longest night;
Tales of dragons in the drifts, or philosophers in the glade,
Where snowmen stand as silent guards, and icicles cascade.
The groups, diverse in form and face, yet unified in this pursuit,
Transcend the barriers of tongue, of creed, of age, in absolute
Devotion to the printed realm, where imagination reigns supreme,
And winter's palace, cold and grand, becomes a library of dream.
Longest poetry demands the weave of details fine and intricate,
The glow upon a cheek from page, the steam from breath articulate;
The way a glove turns corner slow, the crunch of boot in virgin snow,
The shared umbrella of a book, 'gainst flurries that ebb and flow.
In one, a child points to a line, evoking wonder in the elder's eye,
In another, lovers lean so close, their whispers make the snowflakes sigh.
The oversized tome in the circle speaks of faith or epic lore,
Drawing pilgrims to its fold, as if to ancient shore.
This is the ballad of the readers, in winter's tender, fierce embrace,
Where solitude is banished far, replaced by communal grace.
Books as lanterns in the dark, as bridges 'cross the frozen stream,
Connecting hearts in silent pact, fulfilling every reader's dream.
From benches parked in lantern light to logs in forests deep and still,
They gather, read, and in that act, the world's harsh edges chill.
And so the poem stretches on, like snowfields vast without an end,
Celebrating those who brave the cold to comprehend,
The power of the word made flesh in ink upon the page so white,
In groups that form like constellations in the endless winter night.
May we, like them, seek out the tome, the circle, bench, or log,
And find in shared literary fire, a balm against the fog
Of isolation's wintry grip—forever reading, forever bound,
In the longest tale of human bond, where true warmth is found.
Like whispered secrets from the heavens, blanketing one and all,
Gather souls in woolen armor, scarves entwined like lovers' vows,
Upon benches forged of oak and ice, or circled 'round in wonder's brows.
See them there, the first trio on a seat dusted white and pure,
A man with beard of midnight shadow, eyes alight with ancient lore,
Beside him, woman with hair in bun, her smile a dawn in frozen night,
And another, hooded warmly, gazing down with pure delight.
Books unfurl like petals blooming in the chill, their pages gold and red,
Words that dance on lips unspoken, stories from the ages read.
The snow upon the bench's edge, a throne for minds in quiet quest,
They lean as one, in shared communion, hearts and intellects confessed.
Now behold the circle vast, seven figures in the drift,
Standing 'round a tome gigantic, as if the earth itself had lift
A bible vast, its leather cracked, illuminated by a beam
From sun low-hanging, golden threading through the flakes in silvery stream.
Coats of crimson, black, and beige, hoods with fur like halos bright,
They huddle close, breath mingling white, in unity against the bite
Of winter's breath, their faces glowing—joy in every furrowed line,
As verses leap from sacred script, binding souls in grand design.
Five more sit in forest's embrace, beneath the branches heavy-laden,
Books in laps, red covers gleaming, like rubies in the snow maiden.
One with bun and sweater tan, another scarf of orange fire,
A man in green with knowing grin, and two in red, their eyes aspire
To pages turned by gloved intent, the words a bridge 'cross icy void,
Laughter soft, like muffled bells, in this white world overjoyed.
A longer bench holds eight in row, aligned like notes upon a staff,
From child in white with rosy cheeks to elder wise, beyond the laugh
Of youth; their books aglow with inner light, defying gloom of gray,
Coats in spectrum—red, black, brown—scarves that flutter, yet obey
The pull of tale that draws them near, shoulders touching, spirits blend,
In snow that sparkles underfoot, where solitude and friendship mend.
Six encircle in the woods, a man with book of emerald hue,
Beard and scarf in purple weave, his voice perhaps the guiding clue;
Women point with mittened hands, their pom-pom hats a crown of cheer,
Laughter bubbles, snowflakes swirl, in this enclave without fear.
The central tome, ornate and old, its gold embossing catches gleam,
As fingers trace the scripted paths, awakening a collective dream.
Another six upon the ground, knees sunk deep in powder white,
A book of crimson, large and bold, held aloft in shared insight;
Hats with bobbles, coats of earth and sky, their faces turned as one,
To words that warm the frozen air, brighter than the hidden sun.
The pines stand sentinel around, their needles laced with frost's embrace,
Yet in this ring of human warmth, the cold recedes without a trace.
Four upon a bench so small, yet hearts expansive as the plain,
Yellow hood, red coat and skirt, teal with orange, blue with chain
Of scarf; their books a quartet choir, pages flipping in the breeze,
Smiles that melt the falling flakes, putting winter's wrath at ease.
Five recline on fallen log, a rustic throne 'midst forest deep,
Tablets glow and books unfold, where ancient meets the modern leap;
Yellow jacket bold and bright, plaid scarf in red and black so grand,
They read aloud, perhaps, or silent, in this band of snow-kissed land.
And last, six more on bench anew, a single book to bind their fate,
Red coat central, sharing light, with pages white as winter's slate;
Men in navy, black, and brown, women veiled in woolen grace,
Their eyes reflect the printed word, a mirror to the human race.
Oh, what thread weaves through these scenes, these tableaux etched in frost and fire?
'Tis the eternal hunger for the word, the story's sacred pyre.
In snow that muffles worldly din, where footsteps fade and echoes die,
Groups converge, not lone but linked, beneath the vast and starless sky.
Books become the hearth unbound, their flames invisible yet true,
Warming palms and souls alike, in hues of red and gold and blue.
Consider how the cold conspires to isolate, to chill the bone,
Yet here, in clusters small and grand, the human spirit claims its throne.
From three upon the urban bench, to eight in line like soldiers true,
To circles in the wildwood's heart, where knowledge blooms anew.
The books—some small, some vast as altars—hold the wisdom of the ages,
Poetry, prose, or holy writ, turning blank and wintry pages
Into portals, windows wide, to worlds where summer's rivers run,
Where lovers part and heroes fall, where battles lost are dearly won.
In every image, joy prevails, a defiance soft and sweet,
Against the bite of northern wind, the snow beneath their seat.
Scarves and hats, like banners bright, proclaim the victory of mind
Over the elements' cruel reign, leaving loneliness behind.
They read not just for self alone, but for the echo in another's gaze,
The nod, the smile, the shared "aha!" that sets the heart ablaze.
Imagine verses flowing forth—perhaps of frost-kissed lovers' plight,
Or psalms that promise spring's return after the longest night;
Tales of dragons in the drifts, or philosophers in the glade,
Where snowmen stand as silent guards, and icicles cascade.
The groups, diverse in form and face, yet unified in this pursuit,
Transcend the barriers of tongue, of creed, of age, in absolute
Devotion to the printed realm, where imagination reigns supreme,
And winter's palace, cold and grand, becomes a library of dream.
Longest poetry demands the weave of details fine and intricate,
The glow upon a cheek from page, the steam from breath articulate;
The way a glove turns corner slow, the crunch of boot in virgin snow,
The shared umbrella of a book, 'gainst flurries that ebb and flow.
In one, a child points to a line, evoking wonder in the elder's eye,
In another, lovers lean so close, their whispers make the snowflakes sigh.
The oversized tome in the circle speaks of faith or epic lore,
Drawing pilgrims to its fold, as if to ancient shore.
This is the ballad of the readers, in winter's tender, fierce embrace,
Where solitude is banished far, replaced by communal grace.
Books as lanterns in the dark, as bridges 'cross the frozen stream,
Connecting hearts in silent pact, fulfilling every reader's dream.
From benches parked in lantern light to logs in forests deep and still,
They gather, read, and in that act, the world's harsh edges chill.
And so the poem stretches on, like snowfields vast without an end,
Celebrating those who brave the cold to comprehend,
The power of the word made flesh in ink upon the page so white,
In groups that form like constellations in the endless winter night.
May we, like them, seek out the tome, the circle, bench, or log,
And find in shared literary fire, a balm against the fog
Of isolation's wintry grip—forever reading, forever bound,
In the longest tale of human bond, where true warmth is found.
The Sunday Circle