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I am the silver sister.

My hair is white

as frozen clouds,

and I am eldest.


Young people know

how to revel in my snow.

They will ski,

skate ponds, make snowmen

and awe at my jewels.

Old people curse

my gifts,

my plentiful drifts,


that chill in their bones,

the ice fog

permeating their homes,

but it's not my fault.

Age wears

at our wonders.

Even summer

can be too much


when her humidity weighs down.

She, too, wearies

of her crown.

Don't shake your fist

or curse me.

I will only make you tired.

I always win

and will keep you in

with my subzero chill.

Yes, sometimes,

my frost kills

too much, too soon, too many.

Don't think of me as death,

but as holding your breath

and going inward

to ponder and wonder.

I am your internal


Take my rest

and you might reflect

on life gone by

or just the season past.


I will not last.

Come out one full winter moon,

and feel my chill embrace.

I will kiss your face

and leave you bold.

Throw your bitter

to my cold.

Face my ice

and be still.

Though I am cold,

I render you fine

and perhaps wise.

Revel in my silver jewels!

Then celebrate

your own gems.

May my season

help you recall

all of your life.

All of your all.

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