What art thou?
With winter's persistence,
The gardens grow dead.
The struggles fill us
With heavy dread.
The snow blazes passed us
The wind howls and echoes far.
My little brother clings to blankets,
And my parents hold each other without a second thought.
Yet I sit behind a candle,
Its' warmth so yummy and good.
The harsh winter will pass us by,
And by and by 'till the wakening Spring woods.
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