Winter peers her head over the golden hills of fall and slides her hand across his cooling streams. Whispering on chilly nights, her visage falls from a mouth as one pants from walking up the stairs, moisture sings forth the night.
Now, the energiless earth doth slumber, night clothed looking at the clock.
All the characters in turn will get their time for talking, for playing, for making into materials what had only been stories when a different sibling ruled some seven months before. Winter, lover of dresses, dons everything touchable in white, uniformity delight, nothing simmers, speaks only as shine, a reflection, surface has found a way to rise.
Cold, a distillery, slowing the landscape into its heavy march, still, the interior of things unfold into themselves, a circumventing of exchanges so easy in sister spring, now, two places, the howling winds, and the warm glow, layer up. Cotton and wool, fat and timber, charcoal, the backs of things, the hunched hungry pedestrian, the window drawing lines in ice.
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