Lonely days of cold nothingness.

A chilled wind blows over snow- packed hills,

Whistling an eerie sound as it ripples

Over

 As the frigid wind accepts my presence this winter morning, I seek solitude as I walk.

I move along the path, sounds

A blanket of white over winter's day
to match the pure white of my cover.
More snow is coming in, they say,
before it's officially

It never snows,
But the inside glows,
With bright colored lights,
And fresh pine tree sights.

The scent of cinnamon,
The taste

Still

Branches bent low with weight

Water hangs frozen to clear

Cracks running deep through the center

Drifts of white