The Seizure of Winter

Cold winter on the shore,
Dripping down the glass panes,
Hanging on the mighty pine trees like a prisoner of war.
Gray skies, and a full moon,
Ever inturrupted by the shaddow of whisping winter clouds,
Blurring the vision of his magesty,
Lording above the treetops as an emperor directing an army.
They brought the winter and the cold in with the tide.
Ushered them in like a scared puppy,
Then seized them captive,
Effortlessly and with the greatest of ease.
Standing firm among the chill whispering winds,
The pines echo their laughter off the night air.
The moon projects his halo as a victory banner,
Lighting up my world like the bright lights of the city.
Not a bird, nor a plane, nor even the sun,
Dare entreat on this celebration of lights.
This solstace is his.
A victory over the warmth, and the color.
The sun has returned to it's rightful place below the moon.
The winter is his.
The night is his,
To disperse in incraments of his desire
Among the lonely wolves and the barren fields.
Dripping, drabbeling, drowning
In a pool of melted gray.