Brittle and unyielding with nothing to soften her edges.

Winter is like the grand Lady who partakes of her tea on the edge of her seat keeping all of the rules.

No promise found like in the hope of Spring.

Fiercely rigid she lacks the impetuousness of the summer heat.

Pensive as she sweeps across the earth, austerely grieving the death of autumn's boisterous colors. 

Until, alone and spent, she drops her frigid crown and curves in on herself and waits.


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