I am from the cold.
I am from the winter air whispers,
The wool mittens.
I am from the snowmen, with broken arms,
trying so hard to stay up
as to not swipe the happy faces from the children.
Cold.
I am from the smooth blanket of snow falling onto the old snow forts.
I am from the chapped lips scratching against each other,
as I rub them for warmth.
I am from the nights sitting by the fire drinking Cocoa.
I am from the harsh, and the still.
I am from the mornings of bundling up in layers.
I am from
the cold.