I am a crisp winter day that bites At children, still so careless play. To sting the skin To steal away The hope that past this dismal grey The gentle ways Of early May, will glisten on to soften fate. A clarity so few have known A there, to end a portion blown. From wind-nipped noses To imported roses To doors that close when nature Exposes A fragile piece of a colorless day Left free to assume, so sure to betray. At last to consider, a brief chance to stay Until children of Summer Steal Winter Away.