'Winter' Poem by Marcus Nunnally

There is nothing more pure than the little snowflake
each one's unique splendor is new.
Peer out the window, watching ducks cross the lake
just remembering in that which is truth.

The hope of snowdays were all the kid's rage
which made for sweet dreams; if not a day off.
Sometimes we would wake to hear the news say,
'School's closed, all busses have stopped.'

Rolling balls made of snow and a few 'wings' here and there
The whole world, to us, had just gone.
Ice sculptures were formed, more icicles in hair,
just in time we'd find our way home.

Though the least on the list, winter always exists, it's up to me if I need to stay warm.
Though the pros and the cons can seem neck and neck, I don't see much permanent harm.