Winter woods, silent, and undisturbed, empty of birds and leaves, flowers, icicles of pearls for miles. A path I traverse every morning in search of the robin to build musical melodies for an early spring. Winter, a time I reminisce and note season's memories. A time to carve season's changes, of customs, traditions, and rituals, observed through season's festivals and note differences, any. Winter colors, a difference of summer, I see in winter vegetables and fruits, a color I need for an art to carve. Wintera summer I need, a plea for rest of an illness every winter. Winter lark, I searched for a message, a search only futile. A winter melody, I listen to every evening, and watch, the stars, a dance of the melody, of a winter night. Winter woods, an encounter different every winter . . . only worthy!
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