When the wind decides not to strike
With knives of ice to the marrow,
But with casual subtlety —
Wrapping us round with chilly shawls —
When cold creeps up, and we carry on
Unaware at first, then shaking off
The first assault with a fretful shiver,
A sharp intake of breath,
Then little by sly little,
Rubbed arm by glum hugged arm,
Frown by furrowed frown,
We slip under her bleak, numb, cheerless spell.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
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