The north wind blasts cold and rude,
boldly bearing down from snow capped peaks,
hurling icy fragments of discontent,
from a host of laden clouds.
The earth sighs a quiet requiem to the impotent sun
and drifts into slumber.
No creature dares wander the hills bleak and drear,
nor linger near the wild swell of the sea,
to be swept away
or pierced by sharp arrows of cold,
hissing through barren boughs
At length, fury spent,
wind, fog and mist gather in retreat,
leaving the pallid moon to luminate,
a frigid blanket of glittering splendor.
Snug in cranny and crevice,
life curls supine,
awaiting the docile Zephyr to return with spring.