Old lady winter

Winter is a bony old crone
Her fingers cracked and pale
She lives alone on top of the hill
Slowly going mad.

She's always screaming
And swearing at objects
Using made up words
To define imaginary objects

Those old crone hands
Reach into your heart
And pull it open
Letting the cold air in

At first it's nice
Like eating peppermint
Then it hurts
When it goes on too long

When you can feel it
Every single mote of dust
Being pulled in with the wind
And scratching up your veins

She'll die the way she's lived
Old and cold and and all alone
Up on that pale hill
With no one to mourn her passing
But the dry and scratching wind