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.