Though you're not due for many weeks,
I feel your presence, Winter Death.
It's in the air now chilly, raw,
the clinging fog that's your foul breath.
Too soon you come to claim all life
with swing of scythe through garden, trees.
The leaves bleed out, then flutter down
and fragile blossoms wither, freeze.
A savage killer seldom seen,
attacking foliage at night,
you show no clemency, remorse,
fatalities with every smite.
You're shrouded in your hooded cloak
outside my window this gray day,
a silent shadow in the fog.
I dread your coming, fear you'll stay.
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| Writing Prompt |
Using any form of poetry, with or without rhyming, write about Winter using the technique of personification (as if this season were a person). |
Author Notes
The artwork is courtesy of Google images.
I hope my poem is not offensive, but no one detests Winter more than me. Thanks for reading.
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