Shortening days.

Chilling wind.

The sky gray, flat.

As am I. Gray. Flat.

Missing Soleil–bright, warm, light. Each year I beg her to stay.

She says she’ll come visit sometimes, floats away on a gust of wind.

She doesn’t lie. She makes an occasional appearance, but always brings Monsieur Le Froid. He stays even after Soleil departs again.

Winter arrives.

Energy departs.

Gray.

Flat.