Trees shiver as cold winds rage,

Winter performs its play on stage.

People trapped under mountains of clothes,

mufflers and beanies and sweaters, loads!

Hot cocoa in hand with my nose in a book,

snuggled up warm in a cosy, cosy nook.

The sky cries as raindrops descend,

snow falls on without a sign of end.

I look out at the white land around,

wondering what lays on the covered ground.

Snowmen and women with magical hats,

and in some cases, our neighbours’ cats.

Temperatures are becoming much colder,

and will still be yet colder when we are older.

Until, of course, the world changes its course,

and we are faced with the scorching hot force.

But first flowers bloom and birth will arise,

and after Summer, breezes will guise.

The colours of brown and red,

will be everywhere, far, and ahead.

Then the cycle will start once more,

Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn, the seasons four.

Albeit there’s one thing I do not understand,

perhaps you could lend a hand?

Why are plants so depressed?

after all, isn’t Winter the very best?

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