The beginning of December, Earth is wearing ermine.
Soon this gentle chill will be swallowed by a wind
whose whistle has turned to a roar.
Winter insists on the cynical.

This part of the planet is held prisoner, manacled
by ice.  What alchemy would brutalize the lace
that dusted bareness to beauty?  Only a bone crunching
cold without mercy.

The snowflake that danced so delicately mid air
has thudded to earth.  The old paths are jagged
and aloof, but the sky is still blue;
the stars still shine at night.

Secluded by drifts of Winter entering, held captive
by the pallid vastness, memory conjures a dream.
The climate doesn’t seem quite as harsh
with your voice so unexpectedly close.

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