The mantle of new winterís cloak,

Hangs heavy as can be,

 The emerald green of trees is gone,

Their limbs left bare to see.


The leaden clouds of dreary days,

Hang in a sky once dry,

With rain at first, that turns to snow,

As clouds break down and cry.


The dismal gray of darkest days,

Can even chill the soul,

Like coldest wind that penetrates,

Engulfs, to take itís toll.


Old Man Winters laugh is heard,

In howling of cold wind,

Icy fingers reach to touch,

It seems there is no end.


Still winter days march slowly past,

Like soldiers on parade,

Bring closer yet, the birth of Spring,

To soothe those who feel frayed.


©  2003  Loree (Mason) OíNeil


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