By Grace May Stutsman
Softly, quietly,
The Yuletide snow falls in crystal flake;
Naked little shrubs clutch to their hearts
Thin shreds of winter's beauteous cloak.
The brook pauses,
Then draws a long glistening robe
Snugly to its throat.
A trail of tiny footprints, dimly outlined,
Beckons down a purple-shadowed glen
And zigzags into silence.
Softly, peacefully,
A Yuletide benediction falls in crystal flakes . .
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