Every winter I seclude myself in my hobbit hole of a home.
I surround myself with hot beverage, warm blankets, and fuzzy sweaters
so I can pretend that the cold doesn’t exist.
The short days drag into never-ending weeks of self-isolation and hibernation.
All the hours pass by in a gray smog of monotony, fatigue, and malise of mood.
The weariness of winter settles on me like freeze-burnt frost on dead grass
until it is melted by the return of the sun.
Bringing Mae Flowers 