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Description
Winter haunts in roots of December,
crimson berries bursting on brown vines
and leaves mottled silver under foot.
It nestles on damp moss
and gathers, brilliant white,
in beads of snow
that hang on grass
where the air snaps clean,
slashes evergreen smiles in branches
and curls in smoke
from distant chimneys.

It warms the blood in mulled wine
and cools the skin
in the crisp bite
where frost takes away your breath
and children's bright cheeks
flame the gray dusk
that settles over farmhouses.
It smells of peat and toasted cake,
coals nestled in grates
and chestnuts sputtering open
in mittened hands and fingers.

It draws us home against the spangling sky
and settles back behind the windows,
hiding under heavy quilts
and dark plaid blankets,
where steam spills
from cups of tea
and tangles with laughter and ghost stories.
It tucks us in
and shivers under the door,
spilling out under a slivered moon,
leaving us to nestle into each other
and spin dreams of soft, warm green.

Words culled from the pristine individual crytal snowflake

by Scarletletters

cold at the farm. Opheim, Montana 12 miles from the Canadian border. Far away from anywhere you want to be frozen.
This is a working wheat farm in spring/summer. Big Red used to haul fuel to the combines and tractors. Seen else where here.

Description
Winter haunts in roots of December,
crimson berries bursting on brown vines
and leaves mottled silver under foot.
It nestles on damp moss
and gathers, brilliant white,
in beads of snow
that hang on grass
where the air snaps clean,
slashes evergreen smiles in branches
and curls in smoke
from distant chimneys.

It warms the blood in mulled wine
and cools the skin
in the crisp bite
where frost takes away your breath
and children's bright cheeks
flame the gray dusk
that settles over farmhouses.
It smells of peat and toasted cake,
coals nestled in grates
and chestnuts sputtering open
in mittened hands and fingers.

It draws us home against the spangling sky
and settles back behind the windows,
hiding under heavy quilts
and dark plaid blankets,
where steam spills
from cups of tea
and tangles with laughter and ghost stories.
It tucks us in
and shivers under the door,
spilling out under a slivered moon,
leaving us to nestle into each other
and spin dreams of soft, warm green.

Words culled from the pristine individual crytal snowflake

by Scarletletters

cold at the farm. Opheim, Montana 12 miles from the Canadian border. Far away from anywhere you want to be frozen.
This is a working wheat farm in spring/summer. Big Red used to haul fuel to the combines and tractors. Seen else where here.