By Melissa Baron

It creeps.

A silent bitter thief, robbing the air of warmth and land of life;
Lacing fall with frost, crystallizing groves of grass,
Glittering on bare tree limbs stripped of former glorious hues,
Rendering dawn a cold, still beauty.

Freezing the last stubborn leaves of the dying season;
Drained, they drift soundlessly to the chilled ground.
Cool, crisp air begins to bite and nip,
Vicious winds steal breath and sear lungs with frigid air.

Snow blows or falls lazily, powdering the landscape,
Layering the world under a coat of white.
The night is luminous, the pale moon reflecting off fields of snow,
Killing true darkness for its few months’ existence.

Life slows; birds flee, animals hibernate and hide away,
Awaiting the end even as it begins.