Winter knocked at my door,
I welcomed it, without hesitance.
And although was not rich, but poor,
I fed it and provided some assistance.
For old man winter was frail,
Time has aged him bitterly.
He had a long rich story to tell,
And I waited to hear it anxiously.
He spoke fiercely,
Thrusting his fist around boldly.
Yet at times he spoke softly,
Turning his coldness into warmth instantly.
His fingers cold as ice,
His hair white as snow.
Yet I could see it clearly in his eyes,
He had a warmth few would ever know.
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