The morning is dewy and wintry and harsh,
Cold air stings bare legs,
Awaking goosebumps,
Tiny gold hairs stand alert and salute
Old Man Winter,
Thick and astute.
He blows away Spring,
His unwilling bride
Whom he stole in the dark,
In the dead of the night.
Tore her away from her Mother's summery embrace,
And brought her to his freezing cold palace of ice.
He sought companionship and a friend,
But instead brought her warmth to a bitter cold end.
The blood pumping, blush bringing,
Flush on her cheeks,
Froze pale and guant,
She died in eight weeks.
The cold and the harsh
Was to much for the daughter of summer,
She withered away,
Into fluttering flakes.
The wrath of Old Man Winter,
Could not be subdued,
At the loss of his bride,
Himself did he rue.
Tried to do justice, to the pain he felt,
But blizzards and snowstorms,
Could never melt,
His stone cold ice heart,
That struck his bride dead.
