Three months ago, it all had started.

The early blizzards swept by, rushing

Over our fields and yards unguarded

With some unmanageable passion.

I then made up my mind at once,

As though a hermit on vocation,

I’d write of winter and perchance,

I would complete my spring collection.

But trivialities, like mounts, arose,

Like snow-banks, standing in my way,

And all my plans, it seemed, were lost,

As winter passed on, day by day.

I, then, perceived and got to know

Why on this foul and stormy night,

She pierced the darkness with the snow

And from the garden, peeked inside.

She sighed and whispered to me tensely,

“Please hurry!”—pale from the cold.

But I was sharpening my pencil

And awkwardly, dismissed her call.

And while one early morning, I,

Behind the desk, delayed each sentence,

The winter came … and passed me by

With some unrecognized resemblance.