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.
deepcurvesahead 