The misty, cold, biting wind in winter,

Slowly oppressing many forms of life.

With the wind cutting as hard as a knife,

And the snow covering the alpine fir

The endless days pass in a slight blur.

The forms of life are hidden out of light

But yet not exactly a rife

As we see many invisible furs.

And as you walk up a trail in the park,

You’ll see footprints in the dark

Of many scurrying animals

As they return to their comfort holes.

When the sun peaks up and shines brightly,

It signals the promise of warmer times.