The birds are flying
south
for the last season of the
year,
while I am trapped here to
endure
the cold, everyday rain that
pitter patters
on the roof above and
the ground below.
This is my winter song.

My breath becomes visible
in the frigid air,
creating puffs
of white fog.

And as the trees have
grown
bare,
I shiver as they do
in the cool
breeze
that brushes through my hair.
This is my winter song.

The sky sheds its tears
of sadness,
on a gloomy day
like today,
while I'm enveloped in
my own.

Season's greetings.
I sing this winter song
to you
as it was sung
to me
by the drops that fell
and the birds that flew.
This is the winter song.