The winter storm came as all storms must, not to care with the gentle hand of a mother, yet to rip and tear what could not stand its brutal onslaught - to fell the old trees, to remove the rot, and to put it all on an icy standby mode.
When the power of the ages commands the skies in a primal raw scream of frozen white, there is little else to do but seek the sanctuary of our own warm soul.
The winter storm conjures a pure white road ahead, made all the more commanding by the earthen browns of woodland all around.
After winter storm the Earth has her whitest of pillows, her most pure of quilts, and there she rests until the warming sun commands the change into spring.
In that winter storm when the cold air spun the land a new brilliant white fleece, we huddled in close and retold our stories of old.
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