First frost
Riming the landscape
A white dawn
Announced by the crow's harsh call
The waning moon hanging
In a cloudless sky
As the rising sun's rays
Twinkle on the frosted fields.

the windows into the soul
tell stories of what is,
what is to come,
and what will never be.

they don't say anything,
but they speak of compassion,
they scream in pain,
and hide the deadliest of sins.

I will never want to be winner
if that results in someone being a loser

Sometimes I'm not sure
These love robes can be quite snug
I need a tailor.