Winters' wandering within
wicked waves of worsening weather.
Wildly whipping winds
whistling through windchimes
tinkling tenderly.
Women wrapped in wreaths
of wool or, if rich,
cashmere coated against
the avalanche of chill
around corners marching,
counting with a
pink pedometer
to ensure a regimen
regardless of winters' waft.
Snow softly swirling
through the thermal drafts
not ready to land yet.
Not really stuck ...
yet.
Categories:
pedometer, nature, on writing and
Form: Alliteration