Autumn's sorrowing voice
whispers in dismay
at winter's stealthy approach.
Anxiously awaiting
the moment when even
the semblance of serenity
is stripped away
by the blistering breeze.
Sun-swept streets fall silent,
the air compellingly frigid.
All but the most hardy
of souls stay in their homes,
conquering the darkness
with enforced cheer.
A small keening wind begins,
flickering at the windows,
tickling the outer edges
of hearing, tunelessly singing
of the whirling white banshee
that is the coming winter.
It begins softly, crooning
a dangerous lullaby,
so mezmerizingly simple.
Autumn's voice is smooth, soft,
while winter's song is stern;
telling all to be wary.
Days of glacial beauty
are approaching, the dance
a glittering sonata of their own...
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