The first Frosty Winter of 1963

The first Frosty Winter of 1963

The winds of time blow sharp and clear,

Back to the bitter, frozen year,

When winter’s grip refused to yield,

And snow draped every street and field.

The frost arrived, a silent thief,

To paint the world in icy grief.

Each branch adorned with frosty lace,

A frozen world, a stilled embrace.

The rivers slept beneath their shell,

The lakes transformed, a glassy spell.

No roaring thaw, no softened plea—

Just endless nights of 1963.

The skies unleashed their frozen might,

A ceaseless storm of blinding white.

Drifts rose high like castle walls,

Shrouding homes and silencing calls.

Children danced in frostbound streets,

Their laughter bold in icy beats.

While fires burned, and hearts grew near,

To fend off winter’s cruel veneer.

Yet even then, amid the freeze,

Hope lingered soft upon the breeze.

For every winter yields in time,

To spring’s warm breath, her gentle chime.

The Winter of 63 from memories now fades,

A old days in story of by gone days

Yet still it chills the memory passed down

That endless frost, and snow all around.