My sweet Winter, child so chilled
Lift your chin from your position so stilled
To hear a story, that I must tell
Of something better than a wishing well
There are stories written by hands so small
So tiny too in fact you see,
They are inscribed on petals not so far from here.
So while you’re right
And the wind whips as knives do bite
On its’ bows a treasure is safe
Blown from meadows, off the tiny hands, on petals not so far from here.
My sweet little girl, white dress crisp
Sit in the windowsill as Jack Frost nips
To watch for the last of Autumn,
That rascal who changed things as we saw them
He has spied those tiny hands
Working on petals not so far from here
And so my child, little Winter, still
Sitting upon the windowsill
Blow a wish up to the moon,
She should be arriving soon,
Into her lofty palace, Sky,
Around her the near stars that fly.
Just whisper your wish, and blow a blow
So by and by she ought to know
To ask the tiny hands to send
A story ‘round the snowy bend
To a lane we call “Spring Blossom Brook”
And they will send a precious book
Upon the petals of a cherry tree bloom
Made by nimble fingers, not so far from here.