Sometimes, Winter is an old man, hobbling along slowly,
spreading only a thin layer of snowy powder, like dandruff,
from the tip of his knobbly cane to the cracked pavement.
Old Man Winter, his tenuous grasp on the season
breaks easily with the swift and spritely step of Spring.

Other times, Winter is a young boy, laughing delightedly,
turning the surface of the lake to ice as he skates across
his makeshift rink of frozen water, glassy and rippling.
He whips up winds that tease your hair,
and turn your cheeks and nose rosy red with cold.

But this year, this year, Winter is a queen, regal and proud.
She wears a crown of icicles, snowflakes glistening on her cheeks.
Her hair is snow white; her eyes, a glacial blue.
As she passes, bright autumn leaves turn
white with frost, frozen by her icy footsteps.
Blizzards churn around her skirts, waiting, waiting, for her command.
She spreads a deep chill into your bones; it is a coldness that does not fade.
Winter will not be short this year, nor will it be swift.