It is autumn, and the wind is blowing. I hear winter whispering with its promise of
snowy nights cuddling under the covers and soft songs in the wind singing to dancing snowflakes. Autumn is the growing silence. Many call Winter nature's death, but it's all an illusion. Under the snow, grass sleeps. Bulbs sleep, even some creatures sleep deep in the earth. That's why I don't believe in death. Everything comes back. It may be in a different form, but it comes back. Spring is the promise that winter whispers about.
The wind is blowing.
--Susan Hanniford Crowley