it is quiet. here, by myself. it is peace.
and Boreas played his harp through the night.
as autumn nights set upon the day, the light is clear and sweet.
the cold never looked so inviting. or dangerous.
morning quite subdued, with happiness glowing blues.
the winter breeze waftsthrough the pine needles scatteredover the forest floorin gently woven pilesadorning the rocky groundin front of a grey stone stepsleading to the wooden planks arrangedside-by-side – a portal to the warm beyond.
mountains capped with snowcup of hot chocolate in hands,warm glow from the fire
smell of petrichorpermeating the glass windows,smile graces my lips