You can sing for the summer
You can write for the fall
But for the artist
Winter, she bares no fruits at all.

Who wants to read of
a grey winter day
no one remembers to read
when the sun's gone away

the poets weep
for the snow on the ground
which is about as white
as mud, tracked around

Sure the snowflakes are different
but they all look the same
and there's too many footprints
from the children's games

yes the winter for the writer
is bleak, at best
yes the winter for the artist
puts a poet to the test