They are the Sun streaming through the window

They are the fog peeping through the window

They are steaming cup of tea

They are leg warmers over the knee

They are a dog waiting for an empty warmed spot

They are fire crackling on the logs

They are a bowl of hot soup

They are Jazz on a loop

They are a goblet of wine

They are a heart that’s not mine

They are my cold hands in your warm ones

They are your eyes on my face

They are your warm breath in my hair

Only that you’re not here

Winters are not a season

Winters are pure, raw emotion

They are a yearning to be warm

Yet I miss them when they’re gone.