I only write letters to you when the leaves change colors,
My mood starts to bend as the winter wind blows in.
The gardens are wilting but I'm steadily growing,
Rising higher as the sunset comes earlier.
Do you think the snow will come this year?
Will it feel like home used to?
Upwards on the map where winter is a battle between the sun and the moon;
Winds chill bones, rattle teeth, and shake hands.
Will the paved streets sparkle with ice as the midnight hour creeps across the sky?
Think of me when you sit by the bonfires
Friends will laugh along and music will dance in the smoke,
But will it still feel like fall without me there?