The winds grow cold, as does my discontent for all such things.
The leaves are starting to fall.
The lakes and ponds begin to freeze, hiding their secrets underneath their skins.
Lips firmly sealed.
The ground becomes hard, awaiting the blissful dew
Frozen, bitter.
The panes begin to feel their own, amongst the winds they keep out
alone, cold, and also sealed.
The fires scream from their place of center
as we are in it's attention.
Winter is here
Winter is here.