Stark. Barren. Minimalist. The cold of winter calls to me.
While the summer sunshine beats upon the land, drying the grass of the fields and skin of the occupants of earth, winter is but a memory.
The tendrils of ice that held my heart in it’s grip have thawed, now replaced with a much needed steady stream due to the heat.
I escape indoors, pressing my face against glass to mimic frost. The air on cold, chilled despite long sleeves.
Winter is past or … is it just ahead? The countdown has begun, where ladybugs go to die and snowflakes hope for momentary recognition.
