Ivory flakes twist in the icy breath of frost,
Twirling around branches like as a silver dress.
They coat the drying landscapes in endearing glides
And bring forth new life from dead land,
In hopes of blanketing the unborn children of the earth.
Once warmed, they vanish into new, rich soil
And return again when they are called.

The scent of clear, sharp frost enriches the air,
And it brings with it the smell of life soon to come.
Frigid air slips across the land, racing with the frost,
Like pale ladies, frolicking in their dressing-gowns.
The pale fingers of branches grapple at the sky
And seem like claws, freeing the clouds from the sky,
Or perhaps gentle fingers caressing sleeping angels.

Such is the way of winter.

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