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Winter Morn

by Chelsea Wozniak, 14, Blythwood, South Carolina

It's cold in the morning,
The rain drizzles, slowly trickling down the windowsill.
My hands are ice crystals,
Shivering from the wind that is pushing me down.
It's cold in the morning,
The sun sleeps in and crawls up the sky,
Not sharing any of his orange warmth.
The birds quiver their sweet tunes,
Always ruffling their feathers, keeping in the sacred heat.
It's cold in the morning,
The sky is gray, absent of the painter's golden hues
Of a brilliant masterwork.
It's cold in the morning,
And the snowman is clenching his white sweater.
The flowers are glass, crystal dust coating their rosy petals.
It's cold in the morning
And the cats are curled up,
Their lazy eyes watching as the white fairies flutter powdering the earth with their icy velvet.

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