Bleak is the air that wrestles the sun.
A live virus that beholds no one.
Had I been placed here by my own accord?
Would I have forgiven the lack of warmth?
The ghost-like trees.
The moistened forever blight.
Frost covered illness and lack of ease.
How temperate wooden, woolly, sprites distract from the sensitive sway?
I watch as, freeze steals away from the morn.
Always winter and her fight.
I have tucked away the colored glasses for more than forty days…
and, forty nights.