Basking in the winter of my December,
Snow turns to ash.
Covering the 12 leafless oaks;
And the barren, cracked ground underfoot.
The ash lands on my face.
It burns;
Still hot from the flame that the wind sends it from.
Temperate gusts; gray slush.
Blurred vision not helped by the water that seeps through my eyes.
No motivation, just temptation.
Tempted to stay in this far away land,
Beautiful but dead.
Knowing I have to wake up.
Which is deadlier still.
But for this moment,
I’m basking in the winter of my December.