Winter's Bite
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Geese follow a southern flight path,
fearing Winter's a psychopath;
and honk as they flee Her wrath.
Autumn's buried without a trace,
while Winter whiteouts set the pace;
and icy winds slap my face.
I feel the sting of Winter's bite,
lying low in Her gown of white;
lashing out with all Her might.
A femme fatale, a heart of ice,
Winter is anything but nice;
She always levies a price.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2021
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