You're No Robert Frost

Their arms look to be breaking
beneath the wet white liquid
as the layers grow higher and deeper.
I wonder if they’re cold or tired,
empty or lonely.
Winter strips them of their natural beauty,
of their color.
As if to compensate for the suffering
she blankets them, temporarily
giving a magnificence
for all to gaze upon in wonderment.
I wonder if they feel proud or strong,
fulfilled or fearless.
As the appearance of cotton balls
begins to melt,
their limbs stand taller and stronger.
Energized by this short-lived reminder.