I. I love the skies of winter,
So honest, crisp, and clear,
And better yet are skies of June
Than other times of year. 

II. For they reflect the sun and earth
With mastery, truth, and care,
Painting vivid strokes of red and gold
Throughout the silent air.

III. I love the clouds of winter,
They seem so light and free,
They roam the heavenly realms above,
Keeping watch o’er land and sea.

IV. And they reflect each ray of light
In worship of the Sun,
They prophesy His coming
When the day’s not yet begun.

V. And when the Burning Sage has sunk
Behind the yonder distant hills,
Their mournful dance foretells the nighttime’s
Dark and lonely chills.

VI. I love the skies of winter
Which my eyes and heart have seen,
And I wonder, could an artist ever
Paint this vivid scene? 

VII. Could he replicate the Craftsman’s brush?
Could he gather every stroke?
Could he paint each fade of pink and blue
My yearning to evoke? 

VIII. “Perhaps,” my soul now whispers,
“It is not to paint the sky,
Or to replicate each cloud above
Which slowly drifts on by.”

IX. “Perhaps,” my soul now teaches,
“We reflect the winter skies
Not upon a painted canvas—
But within our very lives.”

X. “So go,” my soul instructs me,
“Paint with grand and vibrant strokes,
Giving heed unto each insight
That the Burning Sage invokes.”

XI. “And if,” my soul now comforts,
“From our waking to our sleep
We would, like the clouds, roam freely,
Letting light, within us, seep,

XII. Then great will be our harvest,
And, winter skies, we’ll save,
Not upon a page or canvas
But within the lives we gave.”