An Old Friend

Cold wind blows in from empty fields, Desolate from all its corn and life. The sky darkens as the storm builds, And an icy wind cuts through my coat, like a knife. As the sun sets on the blank horizon yonder, As the storm starts to crash with its ever increasing nearer, I see a small squirrel, and my mind starts to wander. It perks up and starts to dash, like it saw the storm clearer. The old storm rolls in, bringing more snow. I decide to wait it out, in hopes of more white, But as it groans onward, it does not grow. Instead, it dissolves, like shadows in the night. As I wave goodbye to my near-gone friend, In hopes it will return, Its near its final stage, and almost, at its end, And I know I will return.