I watch the crystal creatures made of snow.
They look like people in their shoes of glass;
Some are gay dancers, some are walking slow,
Some lie there lazily inside the grass.
The crystal creatures make their homes in trees;
Some on the chimneys, fences, windowsills.
They have their own quaint personalities;
They seem to walk through forests and on hills.
The crystal creatures are like fragile birds
That sing and with the winter fly away—
Beauty formed by small miracles, white words,
That paint the world a frozen, lacy way.