Winter

The leaves are falling later than usual this year.

Spiraling away from the only home they have ever known, 

They embrace Earth’s entropy, claiming pavement as canvas - making it their own. 

The sun has begun to retreat with haste, its reality inherited as inherent. 

Window panes turn translucent, while shadows become more apparent.

People walk past less frequently, their necks covered in wool scarves  

And palms protected by mismatching mittens;

The cold has returned as remembered enemy. 

As they squabble to safety, they wish to ignore the wind even as she beckons for company. 

I feel sorry for her. She can’t recall the last time she ever felt this lonely.