Catarina Williams
How can I go on walking in the dread cold of winter,
while all plant life is completely dead, barren, stricken of winter?
Beads of rain drops glisten, transparent pearls on trees of winter.
Inhale the intense waves of burning firewood. Smell that? It’s of winter.
I drink dense hot chocolate for comfort while ice shards hit my face.
When the day is done I go to the hearth to warm my skin of winter.
After long, warm months, my mind traces the shriveling of cold against my skin.
Whenever my bones are ice and I shiver, I know it’s of winter.
The sky, devoid of all life, muted grey. The clouds huddle together for warmth.
“Where is the sun?” I think as I hold my breath. A cold breath, one of winter.
The months of white harsh cold are not ones for me.
I, Catarina, would rather bask in summer sun than endure another sad month of winter.
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