Cold Winter Chill

By
When the changed leaves fall to the ground,
And the rustling wind, just barely makes a sound.
When the birds in the air cease to sing,
And your static hair begins to cling.
The heat is turned on, inside of your house,
You are prepared to burrow, just like a mouse.
One morning after the other,
You pull up your covers,
Way over your head,
Because you dread,
Fighting the kill,
Of the Cold Winter Chill.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback