where the writers are
Winter

With my first step onto frost,

Fingers gradually growing numb,

Toes spread out wide in heavy leather boots;

Nose as red as anger, face as pale as the morning sun,

I hear the children laughing, having fun.

Throwing snowballs, engraving angels in the snow,

Making the most of winter,

For there is no warm sun,

None of its rays to fill me,

Fill me with delight.

My lips begin to quiver, turning a shade of blue, 

My flesh erupts with tiny spots,

Crawling at the thought of winter,

No warm feeling inside of me,

Just a cold, icy feeling.

 Gingerly creeping along the path,

Being careful not to trip,

Hunched over, wrapped up warm,

Pretending I'm not here at all.

I turn back now, tense.

Creeping steadily across the icy frost,

Mystified by the fog,

Never quite knowing what will happen next,

Cliff-hung by the silence.

I trudge into deeper snow than before,

With every step I take,

Rasping noises always seem to followm

I'm trapped,

I want to break free,

But I can't,

The road, it just keeps getting longer.