Where it ends and where it starts,
it's seldom that I know;
I reach for thoughts inside,
and then, just let them flow.

Like the seasons, my mood changes,
sometimes buoyant, sometimes not;
sometimes crazy, sometimes sane,
but never borrowed, nor not bought.

The winter starts with coldness,
with frost and ice and snow;
with chill and slippery steps,
with northern winds that blow.

It starts with night-time darkness,
so much longer now, than day;
we hibernate to quell the time,
to push the night away.

Today, the season's got me,
as I muse on its arrival;
forgetting all my leisure,
dwelling on survival.