Winter’s Whip
The sullen sky is silver-gray,
The trees stand still and bare –
And their shadows dreary lay
On the frozen meadow’s glare.
The crispy breath of winter’s whip
Has turned the brook to sleet…
And the once slow-running drip
Along the eaves, to a frozen fleet.
The steady song of fizzing snow
Has lulled the sun to sleep –
And while we get half its’ glow,
Its’ other half is counting sheep.
The crispy breath of winter’s whip
Has brought a frosted bash
Of fluffy flakes of cotton dip
Outside my window sash.
© PoetryPublishing.Net
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