Walking, almost gliding..sliding across the top of the crunching sound of icy snow flakes crystals..Wind blown over stonewalls, nose redden, breath frozen, stiff fingers seeking warmth of..singing softly, sharing the sounds of Christmas lore..The warmth of yonder fireplace does speak of hot apple cider dipped..our pleasures, we share..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem