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In your world, my world, it's turning cold.

The summer that died months ago, seems so distant now, just a wishful memory. The warmth of the sun comforted us for only a small time, but never really was. Grey and gloomy it was gone before it ever arrived; a couple of pinwheels to remember it by. The garden never bloomed, never provided a single meal. The summer garden that was to provide for us, left us starving.

The weather's changed to a deathly cold. I stay up, preparing for the coldest that is to come, trying to gather what we need. Maybe it'll be warmer in my bed. But the natural warmth of sleep never comes. The sleep that does come is cold, and long; rotting away the last of the winter stores. It was hopeless to try to prepare for a winter like this. We have nothing to do but hope we can last until spring.

The longing for spring gives us hope; hope for another summer; A long, happy, summer with a bright sun, flowers, and the fruits of our garden.

A thought hits me. We must till our land, cut out the weeds, prepare the garden for the seed. With the weird seasons, who can know when to plant?. Do we plant when it's cold, or after it starts warming up? My mind tells me not to plant too soon our next winter could be worse than this one. Maybe tending to our garden will take our minds off this long cold winter. God will tell us when to plant the seed.

If only I could get us up; out to face the cold. But for now, we lie in our cold bed; consuming the fruits of the summer garden that never was.

Learn more about this author, Joseph Love.
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