As bad as ours was I can't wait to see it again.
I think about it sometimes as the seasons pass, the pale green spring, the humid sticky summer warmth, the fiery autumn colors, each with glories of their own but none the crown of winter.
The biting cold, the sideways snow, the wind when she rolls on out of the north, the serene stillness when she's not moving. The sound of cracking trees settling in for the long cold, the slowing clicking trickle in the creek as the ice sets. Frosty breath and burning cheeks, a icy white grip on the world around, yes, I want my winter back on the ground.
About the best damn 'winter' song I know, of course nothing Chris Knight writes is ever bad...
I think about it sometimes as the seasons pass, the pale green spring, the humid sticky summer warmth, the fiery autumn colors, each with glories of their own but none the crown of winter.
The biting cold, the sideways snow, the wind when she rolls on out of the north, the serene stillness when she's not moving. The sound of cracking trees settling in for the long cold, the slowing clicking trickle in the creek as the ice sets. Frosty breath and burning cheeks, a icy white grip on the world around, yes, I want my winter back on the ground.
About the best damn 'winter' song I know, of course nothing Chris Knight writes is ever bad...
No comments:
Post a Comment