This time of the year

This time of the year,
climate can get clammy
here in my place.
I see it is too white outside.
Sky is white, Earth is white,
and everything else is also white.
Panoramas come along like infinite
blank pages to me with
empty expressions.

Some times I hear them call me too,
they wish to have that
priming of green back on them,
they wish to live another story.
But then it is too long now,
that I have picked up my pen,
I ignore their voice,
as I hear yet another knocking,
of mists on my window pane,
I dont open my doors,
to wishful now.

I see it is long,
that I have left this seat,
beside this fireplace.
Probably due to
the sole reason that,
only thing worth noticing,
in this iciness,
are those burning logs.

As this flame hums itself mildly,
I see my thoughts,
again meander in the same,
poetic paths,
They always take me
to different places.
Places where flowers blossom,
and sun shines,
No wonder, thoughts can be
naive sometimes.
So most of the times,
I neglect them.

This time of the year,
nights are longer,
and days hide behind clouds.
Evenings dont exist,
and mornings are lost in
afternoons.
Only thing I miss is
that amble down the hills,
It is long I visited
your street corner,
but then I know,
I am too matured ,
to go out in this chill.

This time of the year,
it mostly snows,
everything else ceases.