When she was young, she liked the snow.
Perhaps too much.
However consistent, in powder or slush,
She liked the snow.
After she grew, she glared at the snow.
Perhaps too much.
However mature, in logic and love,
she glared at the snow.
What was bright is grey;
This terrible freeze mocks
and drags,
perhaps too much.
When she was young, mittens were lost.
Perhaps too much.
Little cold fingers, pink cheeks gleamed,
though mittens were lost.
After she grew, gloves were on tight.
Perhaps too much.
Slipping on ice and flushed in the face,
gloves were on tight.
Perhaps. Too much.
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
When she was young, she liked the snow.
Perhaps too much.
However consistent, in powder or slush,
She liked the snow.
After she grew, she glared at the snow.
Perhaps too much.
However mature, in logic and love,
she glared at the snow.
What was bright is grey;
This terrible freeze mocks
and drags,
perhaps too much.
When she was young, mittens were lost.
Perhaps too much.
Little cold fingers, pink cheeks gleamed,
though mittens were lost.
After she grew, gloves were on tight.
Perhaps too much.
Slipping on ice and flushed in the face,
gloves were on tight.
Perhaps. Too much.