Window Connect(ed/ion)

The faintly caressing snow

Blowing gently at the end of March

Pitifully in the air

That won't let it settle

Blowing harshly

It rebels

Not for long 

Alas she relents

For still her stroll is brief

Not meant to be

She laughs still

Her white beauty

Touched ground more frigid

Her cold warms it

Tames its lost nature

Taken away

Back to the Mother's verity