Early one November morn’
With skies as gray as ash
The lands bereft of green, forlorn
The summer’s sun in stash
Looking to the pines so tall
A blanket over one and all
The beckoning of winter’s call
The snow began to fall
Fields of green, a memory
Food scarcened on the table
Hardly, leaves had clung to trees
Sad as a Dickens fable
Mother’s face with cold did swell
Father’s words had turned to yells
My young sister grew unwell
The snow still always fell
As we waited tensions grew
No way to reach the town
Father’s rage inside did brew
The house hosted but frowns
More than a month had passed us by
The door was blocked, no way outside
My sister withered, frail, she died
And father’s sanity declined
Early one December morn’
I woke to wish I hadn’t
Mother’s life, from her was torn
By father fully maddened
Father, he shortly after died
His end to be a suicide
My eyes sting from the tears I’ve cried
Our family now but a lie
As I open up the door
The snow is all I see
My life’s meaning is no more
I beg the cold to take me
This house a tomb to us all
Buried by the winter’s squall
I catch glimpse beyond snow’s wall
The snow has ceased it’s fall