I fear the cold
the kind that’s deep;
preserves or kills,
while fast asleep.

Yet as the snow
settles down from sky,
my mind finds peace
without knowing why.

Pure white innocence
lingering pleasantly,
is but a ruse
to fool us presently.

The wind that’s harsh
is a prick of pain,
those long, choking fingers
of the ice king’s reign.

This field of beauty
a joyful moment,
blinks life to death,
a shock, a torment.

Yet winter’s renewing grace,
its universal task,
revives us all,
if we wear its mask.

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