The snow lies gloopily, Dr. Seussally, across land like a badly-frosted cake.
The trees are iced with such cliched crystals as would make a cheap Christmas card blush.
Improbable pastels overlay the dark of twilight and the quarter moon disdains to shine,
Hiding herself behind sullen heavy clouds that keep their secrets.
It's funny weather, all right, but nobody's laughing.
