Each step I take, beneath me, the ground is crunching.
The winter king begins his great deconstructing.
All branches but the holly & fir have molted.
Outside warmth, from the sun, his season has bolted.
Bound in fabrics & furs, we trudge on thru our days.
Dodging shadows in favor of cloud weakened rays.
We accept it will get colder & darker still.
Cold will sink down to the bone & challenge our will.
Holidays hold us aloft thru humps of gray gloom.
Thus, steeled for the home stretch to the new year’s spring bloom.
L.B.Stowe 