Winter is a frisky steed,
gusting frosty breath.
Winter is the ancient oak,
knowing more than men.
Winter is the whetted axe,
a cold to cut you through,
and winter is a merciless judge,
whose thought is absolute.
Winter plays its icy keys,
incessantly and clear,
a sound that knells an end to things.
we would in vain hold near.
But should we stoop or bend a knee,
to goddess-whore necessity?

by Todd Garland

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