Once more of the white fluffy,
Slowly drifts to the Earth,
In my sixty-five years this is the longest storm,
March approaches,
At eight in the morning,
The eyes of March,
Upon the 10th day,
Ky age changes,
Briefly I become,
A whiter wolf,
For sixty-sid snows will have come and gone,
I don’t carry many words,
Those words adorned pages,
My heart has been ripped asunder,
Still it will snow,
But this storm will have stopped,
I am nearly certain of it,
We jest,
Idiots proclaim,
Global warming a myth,
sorrowful lot deniers (
Val Whitewolf 