Outside, the air itself seems frozen,
and the cold seeps through
the windows and doors
of this old, familiar house.
The sky is dyed a gray-blue,
as if it had been washed out of almost all color.
The tiny, white crystals
that fall from the sky
are like ballet dancers,
gliding smoothly and quickly through the air
for perhaps just a moment,
then blend in with the others
as their solo reaches an end.
I sit here,
in my favorite, old, comfy chair,
watching the snowflakes.
I can feel the warmth of the fire
from far across the room,
radiating like the warmth of a child’s smile.
I can hear the sizzling,
the popping,
the crackling.
And even though my subconscious admits
that this will come to an end
at some future moment of time,
I am momentarily,
content.