Naugatuck Valley Community College
Thomas Warner-Crouch* Winter Storm A silver sky obscures the sun, A piercing wind whips my face, A hissing burst of scolding air, Whispers harshly to the leafless trees, Flailing in response, Endless blinding white flecks of cold powder, Not one speck the same, Swirl without direction to the ground, The chill gnaws at my fingers, Eating my gloveless hands. Its muffled sound its own invitation, To move or stand still, To talk or stand in silence, The flailing of the trees through the scolding wind, Telling me I must do nothing, Just sit or stand in the icy air, It asks nothing of me in return.
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