Dead Winter

No January morning is ever so devastating, the heavy icicles dangle from the frozen shingles of houses with puffing chimneys; no eyes will see the misery of scattered, broken snow flowers... all paths winding down the icy slopes are buried as memories of summers past, and by late spring, will they return to us? Ah, fierce is the strong hand of Nature causing fear through vengeance! The coldest wind howls, bends trees finding no resistance, only snow is seen for miles stretching into the warmer South; where are the Eskimo dogs pulling the heavy-loaded sleights? Where are the chiseled-faced drivers with the fur-covered heads? Where are the fishing boats loaded with salmon and trout? Ah, fierce is the hand of Nature causing fear through vengeance! It'll get dark early, mornings will be cold and evenings as frigid as Iceland', only the pathetic moon will shed its dim light on that thick and vast sheet of gleaming ice that bears crack with their excessive weight... why live in this cold region and wait for the tons of snow to melt? Travel South, straight into California to catch some healthy sunshine; your pale skin will turn red, golden, or bronze smelling the scent of a vine! Forget these poetic words that end my long epic of sad reminiscence, " Ah, fierce is the strong hand of Nature causing fear through vengeance! "