A winter's quiet

Well, have you ever stood by the shore of a frozen lake,
where an immense slab of ice blends with the horizon,
skies so dark, you can see the drift of each snowflake,
and falling crystals upon the shining stars of the Orion?

Have you ever grasped what a winter's quiet means?
the quiet silence that sparkles in the crisp winter air,
it is just a low wail of the wind upon the subtle scenes
fashioned by the pacific unanimated pearl-like mare.

True whites, dull drabs, silver, ash greys and deep blacks,
It is a spectacle made of undiluted colours like them.
First, the black sky, then upon it the silver stary tracks
and through it, the snow falls and settles on the hem.

It is prudent like an old man with wild and well-lived days
now peacefully self-assured but with a mystical reticent,
its decor so profuse yet done in just the shades of greys
unrepressed, yet it is neither ardent nor a romantic ascent

That eerie sort of silence which is not barren or hollow
That quiescence sort of still that is far from inanimate
There is no delphic elaboration yet not plain and shallow,
An eminence in the vacuity, it is like when you meditate.

There is nothing too jarring, there is not much to detail
It just is a quiet- a sweet sort of complacent harmony,
with a steady slow drift of snow, delicate, it looks frail
yet uncompromisingly rife- a solemn frosty testimony.