where will we be?

Winter passed brusquely through the town, with not a thankee here or a piss off there. Just a door slammed - and left open to announce its entrance and a door to the face as you try to usher it out the back. The chill, the stares, the lazy groans as the regulars were moved to coax a hope for warmer climes - long left flickering by a season of long, cold nights reluctant to leave the memory of flesh. The hoar was a jealous crone, clutching at us to keep us from the lush allures of the nymphs of spring - fleeting pleasure for the flesh - and the phoenix of summer reborn in all its too-hot glory only to pass back the guttering torch, to let it fall with but the barest hint of smoke into the frozen clutches of winter eternal. The door, left open, let in drafts of things to be, of snow unfallen, of frigid fingers and nasal neaps, of windworn lips and numbness spread anew. Somnolence stumbles and consciousness takes flight, flitting amongst the draughty spires of free flowing thought, and in amongst the buttresses of reason and faith - auburn ribbon against the golden angles of the present.