.
.
.

Sitting down, beside the fire,
She saw the storm clouds, grow,
So, picked up between her fingers,
A thread of frost, and snow.

One thread of rain, and hale,
A thread of thunders boom,
And to finish off, her creation,
A thread of lightenings glow.

Together, she weaved the storm,
Into a small, and patchy blanket.
A thread of arctic winds, she used,
To tightly fix the edges.

Then, she wrapped it round her baby,
and standing back, admired,
Her creation, of a stormy night,
Which, she alone, conspired.