And I am sure it will not be the last;
I do not know how much it has amassed
But still it falls in freckles all around.
I keep on waiting for a subtle sound
To tell me that the winter storm has passed
But it sweeps on, implacable and vast,
And silent wind on windows starts to pound.
Watching from within, it feels familiar
As in the old pathetic fallacy
Where all the world exists but to fulfill your
Imagined woes, whatever they may be.
Thus as the snow piles up, so love increases
And like the storm, it seems it never ceases.
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