Warm,
huddled
close to the
hearth.
Hiding,
from the
cold
bite of
Winter;
snow's on the
horizon.


Wind,
sighing,
out in the
bitter chill,
of a cold
Winters night,
all decked in
frost.



Snowflakes,
softly falling,
to brush the
frost-hard
ground, soft
as a kiss,
feather-light;
mark of
departed
love.


Silence,
a weight
of silent
sound;
moths
wings,
fluttering
in the
dark.
Such a
weight
of
silent
sound,
outside
in the
dark.


I curl here,
crouched
beside the
crackling
hearth;
outside the
wind is
blowing,
whistling
through
the trees,
barren
branches
clacking
in the
wintry
breeze.


And I sleep.