The biting winds of frosty squalls
envelope shrubs in winter shawls.
The snow forms lines of whitened walls
and still it falls. And still it falls.
Throughout the air, it softly sails.
My plea for warmer days derails.
Increasing depths conceal my wails.
The sunshine pales. The sunshine pales.
And when the flakes fall from the skies,
each one a varied shape and size,
the drifts begin to quickly rise.
They blind my eyes. They blind my eyes.
Then as the storm winds down, I rush
to clear the alabaster mush.
The lawn no longer white and lush,
it’s grayish slush. It’s grayish slush.
© Susan Schoeffield