Knocking at Your Door

A creeping



Is knocking at your door

You may not even hear him

But he should not be ignored

He rides in on the wind

Down from the Arctic North

And with him he brings

An arsenal to call forth

To tap on every door

To spy in every window

Hidden in the dark of night

Seen when the morning wind blows

From the heat of home that turns

Our cheeks a rosy blush

A creeping



Becomes a pile of slush

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