The light turns orange in the afternoon,
morning's white light softens as the cold settles in.
The empty sky is so full, so big,
that it paints the snowy ground blue.
A birch log crackles and sputters on the fire,
the acrid smoke tickling noses and eyes with wintry kisses and promises.
Walking with my dogs in the falling/failing light of another cold afternoon,
a wash of winter colors my mind and mood and soul,
cleaning away the muchness of summer, and rot of autumn;
clearing my palate, or palette, for the spring it promises.