He batters targets with fists of wind
yet nurtures plateaus of pure white blankets,
and sculpts waves of sparkling purity.

His breath whips through barren branches,
enticing their dancing to and fro
limbs swing in carefree concertos
their frigid serenades echo within blustery winds

When the old man cries
tears gather and glisten on trims
like dangling crystal daggers
downward icy fingers without aim

Old Man Winter's
often brutal, frigid conceptions
are not his alone . . .
Mother Nature is always near by.
coaxing the splendor of spring.