There is a whisperiní at my window.
Is it the brush of the silent snow?
The swhishing is now a hum,
A song from someone to come?
Quickly again there is a burst
The cry is something worse.
The wail is a familiar one
Heard before where openings done.
Once when I was a child
The sound was so wild
Today itís rather a welcome groan,
Surely an acquaintance Iíve known?
A crying from a prairie house of long ago,
Where it had companionship with snow.
I find it hard today to hate it,
Rather feel this sounds a bit of overate.
And much more of a kindred kind,
Who can tell of our aging mind.