Winter

All is silent.

It's winter time again.

The cold has seeped in,
Indecisive of it's place in our world,
Rushing through walls, windows, and doors,
Whispering words that come and go.

Hiding under endless white blankets,
Vines tangled, twisted, and turned,
Already in a deep slumber,
Nature patiently awaits it's return.

The sky dims it's eyes,
Weary of it's long journey,
Often rising with the birds,
And setting with the sun.

All is at peace,
Except the beating of a drum,
Pounding for warmth,
For affection,
For love.