Still,

this solemn December fog,

drawing us further,

towards the even,

when January stars overtake the dry day,

still,

nary a breath of February swish,

no March wash or toss,

snow crystalline,

upon the resting ground,

still,

those foggy December places,

brushed by winter freeze and beats,

still,

wrapped by frost and snowy traces,

sapped by winter's testy feats.