This is How I Feel About Winter

A Walk Among The Trees

The trees along the path quake in the breeze.

I too shake, our limbs alike in the cold.

The heavens give us snow,

But it is too much!

All is buried.

When it thaws, hope will come to us again—

Until then, our brittle lungs will ache; the air hinder our bodies and sadden our souls.

(This poem is written solely with words that come from Anglo-Saxon/ Old English roots--with the exception of "until." It used to say, "up to" so every single word had an OE ancestor, but I though "until" flowed better.)