In the Dead of Winter...-By Christopher Warren

As I lay in bed that cold winter’s night;
I look out my window and see the snow;
I dream of the sun’s majestic bright light;
But who weaved this storm, Not I, I can’t sew;

As I sit there alone, out comes my book;
I dream, summer’s past and the busy air;
I defy my great grief to take a look;
Now the skyline covered, layer upon layer;

I began to sum, I would go outside;
As I opened the door I saw but white;
I was shocked the Weatherman, he had lied;
I stood there watching, never such a sight.

I walked to the lake and to my surprise;
The banks were warmed by a blanket of snow;
It was unfrozen, my mother, all lies;
As I stood there in thought I heard, wind blow;



I walked about, heard the crunch of snow;
And saw the sorry state of the mighty trees;
Suddenly the sight of geese, fly south, GO!
I ne’er realized how I miss the bees;

Few tracks pollute the crispy, new white pack;
White caps of ice float, an uncharted course;
The heavy breeze picks up the natural slack.
Devastating ice, at the mercy of an unchanging source;

As I lay there alone I fell to ground;
The calming breeze made quiet the great noise;
And pondered the way my thoughts were unbound;
T’was as if I had forgotten all sense of poise;

What more can I say of that wonderful bitter;
Oh day of days in the dead of winter;