Winter prose

Golden foliage litters the forest floor, enriching the earth with its life giving death.
Wind blows lovingly through the leaves that still linger on the fragile fingers of wood.
Leaves of oak and cedar fall, dancing gracefully through the chill air, floating down to join their kin on the frost-hardened ground.
Willow wands weep over the edge of the fast flowing river, dipping their tips into the cool water, throwing their reflections onto the glittering surface.
No foliage hangs from slender branches any longer. The forest stands silent and silver and brown, twigs like spider webs and spider webs of silver thread against a grey sky.
Only a lone robin flits between the naked branches, singing his song of winter and frost and loneliness.
A pair of eyes appears in the gathering mist, twinkling and sparkling with stories of love and mischief and Summer days of everlasting light.
But beneath the intriguing emerald green of that glance, deeper than the elfish joy, lies a serious brown that draws you into a new sense of sorrow, and loneliness as the robin.
Brown that tells of pain and hard winters and harder summers, and beyond all, that it pierces like ice into the depths of your heart, and intense longing, longing for the end of loneliness, for love, for Summer warmth in the glittering beauty of Winter.