Warming Old Man Winter
Deep in the depths of the stilled forest
the lonely, barren trees creak
in a mournful chorus.
Their fall coats have slipped away
under the snowflakes, no longer displaying a colorful array.
The unpredictable, eerie silence hangs in the air
signaling Old Man Winter is
indeed there.
His coat, made of transparent air,
whips violently as the snowflakes he has clutched
dance upon the breeze
and land upon the ground
Wherever they please.
The cold-hearted spirit of Old Man Winter
lingers all about.
His head, so far up in the clouds










is where he sullenly pouts.
His robe of untamed wind is bordered by his snowflake rind
as he uses the disfigured tree trunks
as his many canes.
He ponders over his beloved loss
because summer's heart he can't retain.
His chilly personality
mixed with her brightness was the cost.
She melted his heart
which drove them apart
concealing his pain, which remains the same,
he knows they shall never be.
If you ever pause to hear the groaning
carried on the wind
this isn't just from the trees:
Old Man Winter is grieving again
for his spirit shall never be truly free.