The air is cold and dry. My breath brings billows of smoke through the dark grey sky. Leaves that were once green and full of life crunch beneath my feet, the faded hungover husks of a year of decadence and joy. Flowers, too, doomed as well to die young, are on their last stretches of flickering life. Frost tingles through the air, lightly dusting the trees and the leaves and the screen door. Slowly it destroys the last vestiges of green beauty, soft delicate petals mercilessly ravaged by cold. I curse the frost silently, cursing this omen of winter. Winter, the bringer of death! No white and subtle beauty can make me forget the sacrifice of verdant foliage. A shiver runs down my spine.

My poor perennials as cold as the rest of them. They, at least, will bloom once again when blessed spring arrives to bring the world back to life. Perhaps I will bloom again as well.

    I head inside, slamming the frosty screen door behind me as I do. I sling off my jacket, a bitter reminder of the flowers being chilled to oblivion. I turn on the stove and begin making myself a cup of tea in a futile attempt to warm myself up to the coming winter. I am warm, but my heart is freezing.