Season's greetings, or the omission of a hand to hold when it's winter bleak, miserable and cold.
Two weeks away in the sun, or campsite summer-lit mornings and sand in our sandals from an evening on the shore.
The dew puddles are forming, its stagnant river sister foaming with cream lips at the edge of the white water; she's whispering well-thought-through white noise because she knows of the future to come, the upriver source told her that you've two seasons left to sort yourself out.