13...
there is no snow surrounding us...just a chill that lingers
cool crisp clean...a winters morn...dusty white...sparkling as dawn turns her hands to day
13
darkness...yet knowing light will come
warmth from a fire still faintly burning
the smell of coffee
the taste of licorice root tea
warm cozy maryjanes
the feel of wool wrapped around my fingers
wooden needles clicking
slowness sinking in
words from old friends near and far
spirits lifted
comfort in the unknown
solace
solitude slipping slowly away
William Powell once said: