Samuel Scott

Warmth beside an unlit fire, just a hum from the TV.

A storm that whisks thoughts window-ward

and a thousand questions from a single pane.

wet wood and wires still a sniveling breath into the pale dark air.

Some of it a crying blue, save the cider-lit light the snowflakes pass.

Ground-bound but headed sideways.

Each one a lie we've told.

Many softer than the rest

but all cold.

The greens from days before fade blanketed or black

while the vents release a noteless lullaby.

Fair Winter dreams upon us all before the night is young.

and with a whisper and a winking wave, her season is begun.