There isn’t much of golden rays, on cold and blustery winter days,

And one is never certain when, the sun will show his face again,

And when a blanket, soft and white, is laid across the ground at night,

Unbroken, save by little hints, of creatures leaving tiny prints,

It’s almost worth the bitter cold, and days that shorten by the hour, when you answer nature’s call to pour on her that *******,

And scribe upon the snowy sheet a warm and friendly “Hello”, that’s written in a single line of bright, unbroken yellow...