The cold air brushes against my skin,
Stir my hair, and let the dance begin.
The grass flows green beneath the breeze,
As whispers ripple through the trees.
They rustle softly, leaves let go...
Orange tears, sharp and crisp below.
In moments like this, I wish to stay,
Hibernate 'til warmth finds a way.
To be as one with this weeping tree,
Yet patience holds its grip on me.
For now, I wait, as seasons turn,
And in their change, new fires burn.