A lonesome wind blows from those mountainsides
a slow wrought moaning sigh.
It traverses these cliffs in whispering flight,
its passing to quick for sight.
A numbing rain this day is falling,
its air no ease to breath.
With crackling snaps and ivory curls,
Jack Frost’s wrath is slowly unfurled.
Waters slow and turn to crystal,
snows blow ‘cross past Fall’s thistle.
Ice grows thick with a blizzard’s howls,
freezing long lost cattle’s bowls.
O winter’s anger why must you grow,
your pain and desolation we’ve come to know.
No seeds of renewal do you ever sow,
only the chill of when your winds blow.
Go back to the mountain from whence you came,
leave us be in the valley, for you we can’t tame.