When every spruce and fir are painted white,
the wintry scene dispenses pure delight
and all the world seems surely put to right,
but it is not so.

Where glistening shards of ice append the spout,
my curious dog approaches with her snout
and wonder wants to displace the dread and doubt,
but it cannot be so.

While pensive writers conjure enchanting tales,
their words and thoughts are shaped to allay travails,
the looming specter of terror inexorably pales,
but it must not be so.

Of angels among us we’re prompted to recall,
At least for a moment the enveloping shadows forestall,
Lest hopelessness leave us bereft of faith at all,
but it will not be so.