The Winters

I wrote it when I was stuck somewhere in the snow.

Those warm sun-rays,

in the month of December,

Those snowy mountains,

clicking pictures of it was an endeavor.

That sliding ice from a slopping roof,

That happiness of a dog sounding like woof-woof.

That cup of ginger tea,

made by mother,

That cozy woolen stuff,

bought by father.

To some it bought happiness,

to some, sorrow,

It is the winter my friends,

here today, gone tomorrow.