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By Bethany Davis
White snow, and red, red nails,
Long, pale fingers, in freezing cold.
Wet and painful, cold's hard burn,
Summer's breeze is winter's storm.
What once cooled nicely, now is dread,
Cuts the bones and cools the blood.
Bow your head, before the cold,
Stinging needles, of ice and cold.
Quickly moving, against the cold,
Moving slowly for slick and snow.
Through an eternal, blinding walk,
At least the door, and then to warmth.
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