Winter Wind

With tiny fists he grabs and blows;
He shakes out prickly, stiff, green robes.

In summer, he whips my hair up high,
But now he streams through slate-gray sky.

The ground lies cotton-soft below;
He measures like sugar the grains of snow.

He bites my wrists with razor teeth,
Then tries to burrow underneath.

He howls until the world lies still,
Buried beneath wintry mound and hill.