Winter’s poem
Unclenched are winter's fingers
Into morning frost lingers
Chased by a blustering breeze
The day loses comfort and ease
Unforgivingly frigid
Toes turn numb and back rigid
Sun steps into the next room
Subjects left in flurried gloom
Rejected or torn away
The mother may have no say
Yowling into a fitful gale
And throwing down icy hale
Wind whips through jacket and bone
Eerie whistle and lowly moan
Muted is the fertile land
Worked no more by the weathered hand
Different people choose to see
Beauty, trouble or agony
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