I love the warmth of heart as a home run is hit in the July heat.
The simmer on the weathering skin by the Carolina beach.
The grilling asphalt beneath the feet of the inquisitive kid.

But above all of this, both prestated and said.

I love the old worn wintery ways, the weathery, the cold and gray.
Where the days are as short as the ticks of a clock.
And the words turn slower somehow in due time.
Like the mirror's edge, I end and yet, know that I age a little less in the wintertime.