Our Muses, one by one, with no excuses become faint and are swallowd up by the ether. Two by two, we see what was and what will be. Those two sets of footprints, washed away in time. Overlapping sentiments. The tired rain, cries. The memory however, like stranded leaves, just out of reach. A mom, gives birth to a brother or sister. Something else to lose.
And with the ice, the solid c0ld, and the snow, remain inert. Frosty prologues with a cutting fog, stares back at us. Fondly remembering. We cannot remember the song, but we remember the words. Like dangling participles and a candy cane on a tree. The smell of cookies and ginger bread and the twinkling lights, we pine for evergeen, under a mistletoe and stolen kisses with the taste of pink reveries. Childhood never dies in our prime, nor in the future on a bed of pillows. Make this season be, with poetic flames, spreading the best of times, the fragrance of beginnings, and the exit, with purity reestablished.