Well Schuyler Thorpe, you've done yourself proud! Your poem, in prose, read like a voyeur spying on Mr. Winter and his show of pompous superiority, and his slide into his gentle side: the soft dropping of snow, filling the air with delicate, white lacy flakes. Thanks for giving me a wintry visit while I sit at my computer, with the warmth of the room wrapping around me. Wa do, Elizabeth.
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